


For a Song

by Miershooptier



Series: Pack Song [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier is pretty useful actually, M/M, Pack, Roach is in this one too, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23095939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miershooptier/pseuds/Miershooptier
Summary: Pack is family, even when it’s newly-formed and pack members are still getting to know each other.  This process is made even more difficult while traveling together through war-torn country to a distant and isolated sanctuary.What?  Did you think it would be easy?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Pack Song [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1659949
Comments: 43
Kudos: 892





	1. Chapter 1

Yennefer’s patience with men had always been thin, thin as autumn’s first frost and perhaps even more delicate. Fools, the lot of them. It was a wonder humanity had survived this long – and completely astounding that it had ever beaten down and surpassed older and wiser races.

Just now her patience was being taxed by the two fools she was traveling with. She would have thought that a tumble might have been enough to sort things out between the Witcher and his bard, but they were still being careful with each other, in a way that was…worse?...better?...than it had been years back, when the _overt_ longing had been mostly one-sided.

Now those looks were going both directions, and Chaos help her, they were trying to be _subtle_ about it.

It was disgusting.

To be fair, Yennefer admitted to herself, it wasn’t so bad when they were traveling. Jaskier hadn’t slowed them down at all, even without a horse. Which was all for the best, because while they were secure in coin for the moment the fortunes of war could and often did turn in an instant, and it was wise to be prudent with their funds. The expense of another horse also meant the expense of more horse feed. 

The bard strummed his lute and walked along with them as he always had when traveling with Geralt – for the most part. Sometimes he rode with Ciri, as she was the lightest and therefore less of a burden on her sweet mare. Sometimes he rode with Geralt. And sometimes, on particularly cold mornings, Geralt walked while Jaskier rode – which had surprised the sorceress, even after their reunion at the inn.

Jaskier never rode with Yennefer, however. Nor did she offer. The bard seemed wary of her, for all that he’d finally found his way into Geralt’s breeches. 

It wasn’t as though she _minded._ No, she didn’t mind it when men were cautious around her. She approved of men behaving sensibly. It was just that Jaskier wasn’t as much fun as he had been, when they could bicker and direct needle-sharp taunts at each other. Polite but uneasy silence was _boring._

The evenings were what sorely tested Yennefer’s tolerance for nonsense. She could understand Geralt’s inability to know how to act around a lover in company – she doubted he’d had many opportunities in his long life to learn. Even their own disordered affair had never involved much socializing with other people as a couple – generally their time together had almost exclusively revolved around the bedchamber. 

She expected Jaskier to be bolder, though – especially given his reputation. But no, they were trying for discretion and instead achieving conspicuousness. Geralt would leave the camp to ‘look for firewood’ and minutes later, Jaskier would pick up the waterskins to ‘top them off,’ and eventually the two of them would come back in various states of dishevelment, smiling secret smiles and generally being unbearable. They often forgot to return with firewood, and one time even the waterskins.

It was the _looking,_ and the almost-touches, and the hesitancy that so annoyed Yennefer – as though she and Ciri had no earthly idea what they were about! Being less demonstrative as they traveled with groups of refugees, or through towns or makeshift settlements – that was fair enough. It wasn’t uncommon for hostility to be directed toward men loving men or women loving women, even for someone like Jaskier, who was known for loving both. But to keep up this misguided pretense among the four of them when they were alone was nothing but foolishness, and Yennefer was not prepared to let this go on all the way to Kaer Morhen – nor to endure an entire _winter_ of it.

Yennefer shot a cool violet-eyed glance at the empty bedrolls that were next to each other but not _next_ to each other on the opposite side of the campfire, then turned back to Ciri.

“Though the force behind your power is yet to be determined, where we can begin is in teaching you control.”

Ciri looked at her with solemn, pale eyes, and Yennefer was struck by how much of herself she was able to see in a girl who was so radically different than she’d been at the same age. Ciri had been born with everything – wealth, beauty, love – while Yennefer had struggled daily just to survive in her own family. But there was steel in those eyes, a fierce determination not only to learn but to succeed, and there was a kinship there. And power – one that Yennefer had only tasted fleetingly in her own life. The power of influence had been hers for a very long time, but almost always in the role of advisor, as was the tradition of the Brotherhood. The role of teacher was a new and welcome one. She was finally doing something that mattered.

“Mousesack said that the key to power was to commune with nature,” Ciri said hesitantly. “Though he was laughing as he said it, so I’m not sure if he was being serious.”

“Mousesack?” Yennefer raised her eyebrows.

“He’s – he _was_ – one of my grandmother’s advisors, and my tutor. He’s dead now,” Ciri’s voice was firm, as though reminding herself.

“I wasn’t aware that Cintra had ever welcomed any mage as an advisor, or even as a member of court.”

“He wasn’t a mage, exactly. He was a druid. He came to us from Skellige.” 

“A druid,” Yennefer mused. “That would explain it. No, girl – Ciri – I may not know what’s behind your power but I can tell you that you are not a druid. What works for them would not work for me, and while you are not a conduit of Chaos I suspect that you and I are more similar in that respect.”

“So what should I do?”

“Control means different things to different people. Self-control even more so, since it’s as varied as people are. Tell me, are you one who is ruled by her emotions? Or are you able to feel them and allow them to pass through you, without undue influence on your course of action?”

Ciri wrinkled her nose. “I don’t – how could I tell?”

“Are you a leaf, or are you a stone?” Yennefer cast about where they were sitting, and picked up a small pebble from the ground, then conjured a tiny wind to bring her a leaf from the litter at the edge of their camp. “You see? How the leaf is carried by the breeze, with little control over where it goes or when? While the stone remains unmoved.” Yennefer held out her hands, the pebble in one palm while the leaf hovered and danced above the other, twirling chaotically in her miniature whirlwind.

Ciri watched, fascinated. “Which one are you?”

“I am a leaf who learned how to act like a stone,” Yennefer said, allowing the wind to dissipate. The leaf floated gently to the ground. “But one is not better than the other, it’s just different. There is significant power to be found in both.”

“I think…” Ciri bit her lip. “It’s only happened a few times, and the first time during the siege. I just – it was overwhelming.”

“Hmm.” Yennefer made the noise before she realized who she sounded like, and then made a face. Ciri giggled. “I think we’d better proceed as if you are a leaf, Ciri, until we learn what may fit you better. Now, follow along with me –”

A soft laugh and the sound of a twig snapping interrupted them, as Geralt and Jaskier returned from their unnecessary errands which had somehow taken them both out of earshot of the camp. 

Yennefer didn’t bother to hide her irritation at having lost her thread. “Were you able to find more wood, Geralt?”

The big man only blinked golden eyes at her, impassive, but there was a slightly smug air about him. Yennefer turned her sharp gaze to Jaskier. “Surely _you_ were able to find wood, Jaskier.”

Jaskier coughed guiltily, but his eyes were bright. “Wouldn’t you know, Yen, the firewood in these parts seems to be particularly cunning and evasive. We’ll have to make do with what we have.”

Ciri giggled again when Yennefer turned to her and rolled her eyes.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

They heard the encampment long before they saw it, and when it finally came into view after they followed a bend in the road the sheer size of it lived up to the promise of its noise. The small river valley was packed with tents, the smoke of dozens of cooking fires drifting into the chilly air. The black, red, and yellow banners of the kingdom of Aedirn flew over the tents on the east side of the narrow river, and it looked as though someone had used a measuring stick to organize the white canvas structures to precision. The tents on the west side of the river were much more haphazardly placed, and instead of flags there were laundry lines filled with clothes and linens flapping gently in the breeze.

“Soldiers of Aedirn, and camp followers,” Geralt rumbled in explanation when he saw Ciri taking in the sight with wide, curious eyes.

“We’ll stay to the west,” Yennefer said crisply. “There will be a market of sorts, there always is, and I can sell a bit of magic.”

“We need some supplies as well.” Geralt nodded toward Ciri, though his gaze also fell upon Jaskier, standing between Roach and Ciri’s horse. “Warmer clothing for the mountains. Food that will keep. Game will grow scarcer with winter drawing near.”

“I typically do my best work indoors, whether a common room or a great hall,” Jaskier chimed in, cheerfully. “Honestly, the acoustics of an open field leave much to be desired. Still, there may be a few here who would appreciate a song or two. Preferably with coin.” The bard clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly to warm them. “Assuming my fingers still work.”

“The cold hasn’t stopped your mouth, at least,” Geralt grunted, but Jaskier just smiled brightly and adjusted the strap of his lute case so that he could remove the instrument.

They tethered the horses at the edge of the camp, where an enterprising youth had fashioned himself as an open-air hostler and was already looking after a few other horses. Yennefer gave him a small coin and warned him about her gelding. “He’ll bite if you’re standing too close and take your eyes off him.”

The young man nodded, a tad apprehensively, and held the buckskin’s reins at arm’s length.

The four of them drew looks from the civilians as they made their way toward what seemed more or less like the central square of the encampment, where there were indeed small wagons and stalls set up, with merchants and wartime entrepreneurs ready to sell their wares. Yennefer stopped in front of what looked like one of the more reputable merchants, whose wagon had walls that folded down and outward to form tables where the goods he had for sale were laid out. She gave the wares a critical eye.

While she didn’t miss being part of any court, particularly as a royal arse-wiper, she had developed a taste for the finer things in life. But they’d been on the road for a long time and still had quite a way to go, and anyway who was there at Kaer Morhen who could properly appreciate tasteful and stylish clothing? Well, possibly Jaskier. But even his wardrobe, which was usually as bright plumage is to a songbird, was not up to his typical standard these days. Was the bard starting to bow to practicality over style? What a bore.

She was just examining a pair of fur-lined gloves that might do for Ciri when she heard a delighted exclamation from Jaskier.

The bard was holding up a decently-made shirt in deep blue. He turned to Geralt, comparing the size of the shirt against the Witcher’s well-built chest.

“No,” Geralt said shortly, not even sparing it a glance.

“Hear me out, Geralt,” Jaskier said, waving the shirt slightly in a way that was probably meant to be enticing. “What if you were to have _one_ shirt that wasn’t _black._ What do you say to that?”

“I don’t need a new shirt.”

“Everyone always needs a new shirt, Wolf, even if they don’t _need_ a new shirt, and this color would show your eyes to advantage,” Jaskier wheedled. “Look, it’s a very _dark_ blue. That’s practically black. Certainly black-adjacent.”

“It _is_ a fine color for you, good sir,” the merchant piped up, keen to make a sale.

“Jask, we’re here to get what we need and nothing more. Now pick a coat, your cloak is worn thin enough to see daylight through it.”

Jaskier paid him no heed, instead pulling out his purse and squinting thoughtfully at its contents. His mouth turned down in disappointment before he molded his face into a charming smile. “I don’t suppose you’d take payment in song?” He asked the merchant.

“There’s no kingdom I’m aware of that accepts song as currency, and neither do I,” the man said coolly, taking the shirt out of Jaskier’s hands so that he could fold it and place it back on the table.

“Let’s see if I can’t spin some song into coin, then,” Jaskier said with a wink, and turned away, plucking each string on his lute individually and delicately turning the pegs to sweeten the notes.

“A coat, Jaskier,” Geralt reminded him with a growl, but the bard was already a few stalls ahead, humming and warming up his fingers by strumming a familiar folk song. The Witcher looked down at the table of wares somewhat helplessly.

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “This one,” she said, picking up a rust-colored quilted coat made in the Toussaint style. She briefly wondered what sort of state Toussaint was in, protected as it was by a ring of mountain ranges. Not that mountains had posed much of an obstacle to Nilfgaard so far. She turned to Ciri, holding out the gloves. “What do you think of these?”

Ciri couldn’t stop petting the soft fur on the cuffs, but all of her other choices were practical. She pointed out a pair of trousers, a shirt, and a jacket, which Geralt purchased without comment or objection.

Yennefer left them to it, wandering through the market until she found a gap between a tent and a table, unoccupied because there was a large-ish stone to be avoided. Perfect.

She sat on the stone, arranging her skirts artfully, then pulled a dark red shawl from her bag. She flapped the shawl out once and then tossed it into the air, where it hung as a canopy above her as though suspended by invisible lines. It gave her eyes a bit of shade from the afternoon sun, and served as an advertisement of what she had to offer.

A few of the people passing by gawked at her set-up and whispered to each other, hurrying away. Yennefer was untroubled. She never had a problem getting customers – there was always someone who needed something. She inspected her fingernails as she waited, and had to school her face to avoid smiling as Jaskier grandly paraded past with his lute and a gaggle of children trailing him like ducklings. He gave her a brief nod, continuing to sing without pause.

_Have a care when crossing water_

_If it runs not clear but brown_

_For beneath such lie the dead_

_In wait for souls to drown_

Grim fare for a children’s song, but Yennefer felt that acquainting the young with the dangers in this life was better than not – less chance of them being caught unawares. Childhood was a luxury best not indulged for too long.

“Your pardon, mistress,” a voice said softly, and Yennefer turned to see a young woman standing a few feet away. “Are you – I mean, have you some magic to sell?”

“Tell me what you need,” Yennefer said, beckoning her to come closer.

The woman did, her need overcoming her hesitation. She met the sorceress’s eyes briefly before lowering them to the ground, and Yennefer fought not to roll hers in response. 

“My young man is there, on the other side of the river, and I’m afraid for him. We’re not yet married, you see, and –” The woman cut herself off, lifting a hand and placing it on her still-flat belly, glancing at Yennefer to make sure she understood her meaning.

Something tightened in Yennefer’s chest, and she automatically threw up a wall between herself and the feeling. That was not to be hers, she knew that now, trusting Borch’s words on the mountain so long ago. “And you would like – what? A protective charm, for him? For you and the babe?”

“I think I’ve only enough for one,” the young woman whispered fretfully, shaking her purse. 

The sorceress sighed and pulled some blue ribbon from her bag, folding the length in two and using a small knife to cut it. She whispered some words in Elder over each piece, tying two identical and intricate knots, and then handed them to the woman.

“These are no guard against recklessness,” Yennefer warned. “It will make neither of you invincible, so act accordingly. Keep this on you always, and give him the other.”

The woman nodded eagerly and tipped her purse into Yennefer’s waiting palm, then turned to go, clutching the bits of ribbon close to her chest.

“Hold on, girl,” Yennefer said sharply. “You’d best find yourselves a priestess or an alderman, someone who can give you a legitimate ceremony. Charms aren’t foolproof, and you’d be in a better position to receive a widow’s boon from the king if your man should die.”

The young woman gasped, her dark eyes filling with tears – but then she nodded, accepting the practical meaning behind the advice.

There were more customers to follow, as the sun made its way closer to the horizon. Some, like the first, wanted protection, either for themselves or a loved one. There was an older man who wanted something to relieve the pain in his bad back. A child who asked her to find her family’s hound, which had wandered away when the family packed up to follow her father to the battlefield. One or two she turned away after looking into their eyes and reading the ill intent behind their requests.

She didn’t used to be so choosy about customers, didn’t allow herself to become concerned with what they might do with her magic after she sold it to them. But she had grown weary of sowing unintentional discord, with the world in the state that it was, and she was already doing enough business to cover what they’d spend today on clothing and supplies.

Yennefer was just retrieving her shawl from the air to head off in search of Geralt and Ciri when a large group of armed men in Aedirn colors approached her. One of them stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His appearance and bearing suddenly reminded her of the half-witted Sir Eyck, and she wondered if the gods had some sort of mould from which they stamped hundreds of copies of strong, indiscriminately brave and arrogant men. She’d certainly met enough of them in her lifetime.

“I am Sir Brunor of Aldersberg, and you are to come with us, witch,” the man said imperiously.

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Am I.”

The knight tapped a sheepskin scroll that he held tucked under one arm. “By royal decree all users of magic are to be taken into the king’s service for the protection of Aedirn against the forces of Nilfgaard. You are being conscripted.” 

The area around them had cleared of civilians, the merchants and sellers in the adjacent stalls hastily packing up so that they could close shop.

Brunor’s face went slightly purple at Yennefer’s derisive laugh. “Demavend doesn’t have any willing pet mages, then? Is he as careless with them as his father was?”

“You will address King Demavend the Third and the late King Virfuril with respect, witch,” Brunor said menacingly, accepting a pair of shackles from one of his men. 

Yennefer’s amusement died immediately. The metal shackles had a bluish sheen to them, and they gave off an aura of nothingness – a hole in an atmosphere that should have been filled with ambient Chaos. 

_Dimeritium._

“I will only warn you once, and that’s because I’m feeling generous today,” Yennefer said, shifting into a ready stance, her words ringing like steel through the air.

“Take her!” Brunor shouted, and the men standing next to him lunged forward.

Yennefer flung up a hand and the men flew back, crashing down on top of the tent behind them. As she whirled to face the rest of the soldiers, she heard a soft twang and felt something hit her lower back.

It was as though some kind of heavy, thick and invisible gauze had fallen over her body, dampening all of her senses. The sounds of the men around her were muted, everything seemed darker and grayer, even in the golden light of the setting sun. She strained to feel any of the Chaotic energy that should have surrounded her, and found nothing.

She groped behind her and felt the shaft of a crossbow bolt, but it broke off easily in her hand, leaving the tip embedded in her flesh. Her fingers came away slick with blood, and she could feel the wet spot on her back growing larger.

 _“Fuck,”_ she gasped, and then took off running. 

There was pain. Pain in every step, every breath, every movement as she darted between the tents in an attempt to lose her pursuers. But Yennefer was well acquainted with pain, it was her oldest companion, her first memory. There had never been a time in her life when she was without some form of it, and she had endured far worse physical pain than this.

Still, the absolute numbness to Chaos that she felt with the Dimeritium crossbow tip inside her was an entirely new experience. She’d been exposed to it once at Aretuza as part of her training. Tissaia had wanted her girls to be able to recognize it by sight and touch, should they ever encounter it. But this was suffocating, she felt as though she could not breathe, even surrounded by air. She felt more helpless even than she had at Sodden, wounded and drained after unleashing hellfire on the Nilfgaardian troops, but even then she had still felt the Chaos surrounding her.

Yennefer automatically sought to throw her voice to Geralt, to let him know what was happening, but of course she couldn’t. She thought that she was heading in the direction they’d come from, where they’d tethered the horses, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t sure of anything at the moment – she’d known and exercised her ability to channel Chaos for too long, that to be without it now –

She crashed into someone and felt hands grip her elbows, and she struggled, trying to jerk out of the hold.

“Yen! Yen, what –?”

Jaskier’s face came into focus, his blue eyes wide with fear and worry. “Melitele’s tits, that’s a lot of blood! Did you kill someone? No – is that _your –”_

“Soldiers of Aedirn,” Yennefer panted. “They’re right behind me, I have to hide –”

“In here,” hissed a voice, and Yennefer turned dull, watery eyes on her first customer of the day, the young woman seeking protective charms. She was holding up the flap to her tent and beckoning frantically. “Come in here.”

Yennefer lurched forward and Jaskier had no choice but to lurch with her, supporting her weight until she stumbled inside. Everything was spinning, everything was blurring together…

And then everything went dark.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

“Yen. Yennefer.”

That low rumbling voice guided her back to consciousness, which was just as she had left it – dulled to everything but the pain. So the Dimeritium was still inside her, then. Yennefer forced her eyes open, Geralt’s face the first thing in view, drawn down in a concerned scowl. He was gently smoothing her hair back with one of his large, calloused hands.

“Get this fucking thing out of me,” she spat weakly, reaching up to grab a fistful of his shirt.

“What –”

“Dimeritium, the bolt was tipped with it.” Yennefer had to stifle a scream of pain as she rolled onto her uninjured side, giving the Witcher a better look at the wound. The move brought Ciri into her line of sight, and the girl’s face was even paler than usual, her blue-green eyes swimming with unshed tears. 

Shit. 

“Shh-shh-shh!” Jaskier was at the entrance of the tent, peering out through the partially open flap. “They’ve been past twice now and they haven’t given up.”

“I can’t heal myself until it’s gone.” Yen’s voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t do _anything_ until it’s gone.”

“Here,” came a soft voice. The owner of the tent pressed a clean cloth against Yennefer’s wound, and again the sorceress had to bite back a cry.

“Ah yes, Geralt, this is Agata, she’s lovely and helpful. Agata, this is Geralt, he’s very helpful too, but he’s grumpy about it. And this is Fiona.” Jaskier gestured a tad wildly all around. 

Geralt grunted in acknowledgement.

“What he means is that he’s very pleased to make your acquaintance, Agata.” Jaskier flashed a smile in her direction before turning his attention back to keeping watch.

“You’ve lost a lot of blood, Yen,” Geralt said grimly.

“Then be quick about it,” Yennefer snapped.

“Hmm.” Geralt pulled a leather wallet out of his saddlebag and unclasped it, revealing an array of small, sharp knives. “Get her something to bite down on,” he said to Agata, carefully making small slits in the fabric of Yennefer’s dress around the wound and then ripping them wide.

Agata snatched an apron that was hanging over a line stretched between two of the tent poles, rolled it up, and knelt next to Yennefer’s head, holding it in front of her mouth. Yennefer grimaced and accepted it, clamping the material tightly in her teeth. 

“Ah, cub, come away, you don’t need to watch,” Jaskier put an arm around Ciri and pulled her close, but made sure to keep her away from the tent opening. “It’ll be over quickly, don’t worry.”

Ciri looked up at him and opened her mouth to say something, but the first muffled cry as Geralt began his task made her jump. She let out a startled sob. 

“Shh, it’s all right,” Jaskier said, pressing her face into his shoulder. “It’s all right.”

But underneath the slightly sickening sounds of raw flesh being separated and Yennefer’s attempts at keeping quiet, the noise of an approaching crowd was growing, and Jaskier leaned back toward the tent flap to get a look.

The soldiers were coming back, and they were yanking open the flaps of each tent along the row, shouting inside at the occupants, clearly in search of a witch. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier said with feeling, and gently detached himself from Ciri. “Geralt, they’re coming.”

“Can’t very well stop in the middle of this, bard,” Geralt said tightly.

“Right.” Jaskier knelt down and rummaged through the sack which held his earnings for the day – very little coin, but various people in the camp had been glad to spare a few loaves of bread, a wedge of cheese, some apples, and a bottle of wine. The wine was Est Est, a very fine vintage, and he’d been hoping to save it for something special. He sighed and pulled the bottle free of the sack, using the knife from the sheath in his boot to uncork it. “I’ll take care of it.”

“What?” Ciri gasped. “You’re not going out there!”

“Jaskier –” Geralt growled, looking up, his hands still and golden eyes intent.

“Think, Geralt. We’ll draw less attention if we can get through this without any dead soldiers. It’ll be fine. Probably.” Jaskier took a long swig of the wine, letting some of it dribble down his chin, then deliberately spilled a bit of it on the front of his doublet. He picked up his lute and slung it over his head in front of him, then made to step outside.

 ** _“No.”_** There was an echo to Ciri’s voice when she spoke, and it brought Jaskier up short. The girl marched up to him and gripped his arm, her eyes blazing. “People have been dying for me since the night Cintra fell. I **_will not_** lose anyone else.”

“Ci – Fiona,” Geralt said sharply. “Let him go. We can’t risk you being discovered. He’ll handle it.”

“See?” Jaskier smiled weakly, peeling Ciri’s hand away with a wince. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.”

The bard stepped out of the tent, plucking clumsily at his lute with one hand while taking another swig from the bottle with the other. He let out a loud sigh of appreciation and attempted some chords, figuring that a little flattery couldn’t hurt the situation. He put a little slur into his voice as he sang.

_Should Nilfgaard clash with Aedirn_

_Such a lesson they will learn_

_The Southern fruit, they plucked_

_But against Aedirn they are fucked_

“You there! Bard!” Brunor strode towards him, his men following close behind. “We’re looking for a woman.”

“Oh, aren’t we all, my shiny armored friend. Aren’t we all!” Jaskier gave them a knowing grin, then held up the bottle of Est Est. “Won’t you join me in a drink! I’m afraid that while I’m well in my cups, I don’t actually _have_ any cups, you know, not _with_ me – but I’m happy to share nonetheless.”

“We’re looking for a specific woman, bard. A witch, with long dark hair and purple eyes.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like a very specific woman indeed! What’s she done? Is that why you’ve been peeping in on honest folks? It’s not just because you want a glimpse of their goods?”

 _“That_ is none of your concern,” Brunor snapped, and grabbed the front of the bard’s doublet, jerking him close so that they were nose to nose. “Have you seen her?” 

Jaskier belched right in his face, giving him a taste of sour wine breath. “Apologies, Sir Knight, you caught me by surprise.” 

The knight made a disgusted noise and shoved him back, none too gently. “I asked you a question, you drunken wretch.”

The bard grinned slyly and pretended to consider. “Would there be coin involved, if I had?”

“I’ll give you a taste of the reward you’ll get if you don’t tell me the truth,” growled Brunor, and backhanded Jaskier across the face. The metal guard on the back of the knight’s glove opened a cut on his brow, and he staggered to the side, letting out a sharp grunt.

“Well, I’m certainly not sharing with you _now,”_ Jaskier said bitterly after taking a couple of deep breaths, then fluttered a hand in a westerly direction. “There was some commotion over that way not long ago. No idea if it had anything to do with your witch.”

“Filipek, check this tent,” the knight commanded, jerking his head toward one of his men. 

“Wait, which tent?” Jaskier asked, raising his voice and sidling drunkenly between the soldiers and Agata’s tent. “This one? Could have sworn you already searched this one. Or did you mean that one over there? They all look rather the same to me, this must be terribly frustrating for you. Probably best that you haven’t shared a drink, actually, I may be seeing double.” He made a show of peering closely at the wine bottle. “Gods, this stuff is strong –”

“Be _silent,_ you stupid man!” Brunor shouted – rather defeating the purpose of calling for silence, Jaskier thought. He seized the bard by the collar and yanked him down to the ground, following up with a swift boot to the stomach.

The air rushed out of him and for a moment Jaskier struggled to breathe, watching in apprehension as Filipek twitched aside the tent flap and poked his head inside. He shifted, inching his hand toward the left sleeve of his doublet, where he had a knife hidden. After a moment, the soldier withdrew and turned to his commander.

“No sign of the witch, sir.” 

Jaskier swiped a hand at the blood trickling down the side of his face, trying to hide the flood of relief that he felt.

Brunor scowled. “Then let us move on. If I find that you’ve led us a dance, bard, rest assured that I will be coming back.”

Jaskier only wheezed in his direction, knowing from experience when to stay down. He waited for the knight and his men to disappear around the bend, and sternly instructed his stomach that its contents were to stay _put,_ fighting nausea as he regained his breath. 

He slowly got to his feet, gingerly holding a hand to his gut, letting his lute hang at his side, and limped back inside the tent. Yennefer was sitting up against a pile of blankets and pillows, her blood-stained dress in tatters and a bandage wrapped tightly around her middle – but even so she looked much better. Geralt was cleaning his hands, wiping them dry with a cloth.

“Axii?” Jaskier rasped.

Geralt nodded, his expression hardening when he saw the blood and bruising on his bard’s face. He took Jaskier’s arm, steering him away from the entrance to the tent, then raised a fist. _“Yrden.”_

A blue light shimmered along the entire side of the tent, temporarily sealing it with magic. Jaskier felt Yennefer’s eyes on him, and he turned. He didn’t know quite what to make of the look on her face, so he held out the half-full bottle of wine. “Here. You look like you could use it.”

The sorceress didn’t deny it. She accepted the bottle and tipped her head back, taking a few long swallows.

“Sit down.” Geralt said gruffly.

“I’m fine, Geralt, really –”

“Sit down,” Ciri commanded, sounding every inch a princess. She was holding a bowl of water and a clean cloth, which Agata had handed to her.

“Oh. Well, if I’m to be _cosseted_ …” Jaskier sat carefully, unable to hide a wince as his stomach muscles protested. “I’d never say no to a bit of cosseting.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Yennefer woke in the quiet of early morning, when the sounds of the encampment beginning to stir for the day were still hushed and unobtrusive. She raised her head to check on Ciri, who was sharing a pallet with Agata on the other side of the tent. Both of them were still sleeping peacefully. 

She sat up experimentally, and was pleased to discover that the healing that she’d started as soon as the Dimeritium had left her body was progressing well. She hadn’t let Geralt stitch the wound, confident that once she was again connected to Chaos, she could cause it to close on its own. Her dress was in ruins. She had other clothes, of course, but she wanted to purchase a replacement before they left today.

Geralt was awake and watching her, sitting upright with his back against Agata’s heavy pine traveling trunk. Jaskier was settled between his legs, laying back against the Witcher’s chest with his head drooped to the side, still asleep. There was a livid bruise forming around his eye, and Yennefer remembered him lamenting the previous night the fact that people were not as generous with their musical appreciation when a bard looked like trouble.

“You’ve finally come to your senses, then?” Yennefer asked, gesturing to the picture that Geralt made, with Jaskier secure in his arms.

The Witcher raised his eyebrows. “My senses?”

“All this ridiculous pretending,” Yennefer said, impatient. “Neither Ciri nor I are completely oblivious, you know.”

Geralt snorted softly. “Of course you’re not. Anyway, it wasn’t my idea, it was his.”

“What?” Yennefer was surprised.

“He was trying to spare your feelings,” Geralt explained, glancing down at Jaskier with a fond expression. “Thought it might be awkward if we carried on in front of you.”

Yennefer almost laughed. “And you agreed with him?”

Geralt met her gaze steadily. “I wasn’t sure. You haven’t exactly been keen to talk about it.”

“And you have?” Yennefer scoffed. “What’s to discuss? Whatever _was_ between us, this pull that we have toward one another – I haven’t felt that…that craving for you since we started traveling together. I mean recently. With Ciri.” She suddenly glanced back over toward the girl and Agata, reassuring herself that they were both sleeping.

Geralt nodded once in agreement, his expression a combination of both relief and, to a lesser extent, regret. 

“So, carry on,” Yennefer waved vaguely. “Within reason, of course. No need to be indecorous.”

“Hmm.” Geralt allowed himself a small smile.

Yennefer got stiffly to her feet, more from sleeping awkwardly than from the wound she’d sustained the previous day. Her gaze fell briefly on the Dimeritium crossbow bolt tip that Geralt had cut out of her, sitting on the ground next to him. It was a wicked thing, razor sharp and double-barbed. The Witcher had said that he’d melt it down with Igni at the next opportunity, and Yennefer again felt a surge of resentment that the metal did not seem to affect Witchers as it did mages.

“Where are you going?” Geralt asked.

“To see if I can’t find a new dress before we go,” Yennefer answered briskly. She whispered a word in Elder and passed a hand in front of her face, then down toward the ground, casting an illusion which transformed her appearance to that of an older blonde woman, slightly stooped and dressed in faded, practical clothing. She winked at Geralt and stepped outside.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

They left Agata’s tent while the woman was still sleeping – her slumber ‘helped’ along by Yennefer, who insisted that she needed the rest anyway, given that she was expecting. There was a purse with half of what Yennefer had earned tucked into her hand, as well as another ribbon charm and a brief note, which read _‘For the babe.’_

Some time later in their travels, Geralt was surprised to find a deep blue, ‘black-adjacent’ shirt at the bottom of his pack, and Jaskier was just as astonished as he was.

“What?” Yennefer asked defensively, when they both looked at her. “You could do with some color in your life, Geralt.”


	2. Chapter 2

_There was fire._

_Blood. So much blood. And screaming._

_Swords clanging and steel scraping against bone._

_Bodies twisted and broken, hanging from the trees. Bodies shot through with black-shafted arrows._

_A dark figure on horseback atop a ridge, the long feathers in his helmet streaming in the wind._

_The gray, lumpy visage of a doppler, which morphed into the faces of her loved ones in rapid succession. Calanthe. Eist. Lazlo. Dara. Mousesack. Danek._

_Jaskier._

_Yennefer._

_Geralt._

Ciri woke with a cry, finding herself tangled in her blankets in almost complete darkness, the only light coming from the dying coals of the fire. She squeezed her eyes shut and stifled a sob, trying not to wake anyone else. The nightmares had been growing steadily worse. She could count on being awoken at least once each night now.

Hearing no one else stirring, she gave a soft sigh of relief. But she had not yet become used to what traveling with a Witcher meant. As she turned, trying to get comfortable in her bedroll again, she caught a glimpse of amber eyes shining in the dark, and gasped in momentary fear. 

“Come on, cub,” Geralt’s voice was gentle. He lifted up the blankets he was sharing with Jaskier, and the bard grumbled in his sleep when he felt the cold air. “Budge up, Jask.”

Jaskier cracked an eye and shuffled aside, leaving room for Ciri to drag her blankets over and settle down between them, still trembling from the residual terror of her dream. She almost immediately started to feel better, though, nestled safely in the middle and so very warm. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

“Teach me,” Ciri demanded, squatting next to Geralt as he assembled a tinder nest for their fire.

“Hmm?” The Witcher glanced at her, his hands continuing their work as they’d done countless times before.

“Teach me. You know, the –” Ciri jabbed her hand forward, her fingers spread in an imitation of the way Geralt’s hand looked when he used Igni. “Could you teach me? Please?”

“This is not your type of magic, Ciri.”

“I can at least try,” she argued. Her lessons with Yennefer had thus far led nowhere. She was growing impatient with the calming exercises the sorceress made her practice, and felt desperate to achieve any kind of control over the power that she knew she had inside her. Lighting fires seemed as good a thing as any to master. The gods knew she had mastery over nothing else in her life.

“So you can,” Geralt said, smiling slightly. He took her hand, adjusting her fingers until she was truly making the sign. “Think fire. Say ‘Igni.’ Thrust your hand at the kindling at the same time.”

Ciri closed her eyes, trying to conjure the feeling of fire in her mind. She took a deep breath, then pushed her hand down at the pile of wood and dry moss while shouting, “Igni!”

Nothing happened.

“Had you been a Witcher, that would have worked,” Geralt offered, but Ciri wasn’t in the mood to hear it. She resisted the urge to kick at the circle of stones Geralt had assembled to contain the fire, and stomped away.

Her feet carried her towards the nearby stream without her really being aware of it, lost as she was in her anger, in her feeling of failure. Gradually she became mindful of someone talking, and automatically altered her course towards the sound.

“…so while people are less free with their coin, dear girl, it seems that they’re perfectly happy to pay in apples – which would be fine for me if Kaedwen were a majority-apple economy, but sadly they are not. Still, this means you get a greater share in the bounty, which is only what you deserve, isn’t that right?”

There was the sound of munching and a rumbling nicker, and once Ciri passed a particularly large boulder she could see Jaskier standing at the edge of the stream with Roach and the other horses. Ciri’s mount was drinking from the water, while the buckskin gelding was standing on the other side of her, his ears perked up, his head swiveled towards Roach’s treat with interest.

Jaskier hadn’t noticed her yet, and was busily cutting up another apple. He looked over at Yennefer’s gelding, holding up a slice of the fruit. “Are you prepared to be civil this time, lad? Or are you going to be an arsehole like you are all the time to everyone?”

The gelding laid his ears back and blew at the bard, but took the treat politely enough.

“There, see? I’m actually not so bad a fellow once you get to – _ah-ah!”_ Jaskier snatched his hand away as the gelding tried for a bite. “I was quicker than you that time, my lad. You are the worst. But there are a lot of apples, so I suppose I can’t deny you.”

Ciri couldn’t help herself. She giggled, her sour mood lifting just a little.

The bard smiled at her when he turned, and immediately waved an arm dramatically. “You can see how my generosity is appreciated. That last innkeeper grants me a whole sack of apples, which I suppose are more edible than coin but certainly less versatile, and this is the thanks I get for sharing.”

“Have you already shared with my horse?” Ciri asked, coming closer so that she could stroke Roach’s shoulder.

“I haven’t, actually, because this brute becomes even more disagreeable when she eats before him, if you can believe it. His manners are atrocious.”

Ciri’s brown mare had lifted her head from the water and was now nudging gently at Jaskier’s side, seeking her own share of the apples. Jaskier gave her a good scratch behind the ear. “Do you want to feed her?”

The girl nodded, accepting two quartered apple slices from him, and held them out for her horse one at a time. The mare took the morsels gratefully, while the gelding behind her snorted and stomped a hoof.

“She’s a sweet thing,” Jaskier said, keeping a wary eye on the buckskin. “You might consider giving her a name.”

Ciri closed her eyes briefly and kept petting the mare’s muzzle. “A named thing…a named thing is just one more thing that I have to lose.”

Jaskier glanced down at her sharply, pursing his lips, but didn’t say anything. 

The two of them stood in silence for a moment, which was unbroken except for the horses as they sated their thirst. “Here,” Jaskier said, handing Ciri the brown mare’s lead line. “You lead her back, I’ll take Roach and the troublemaker.”

Geralt had a sort of stew bubbling on the fire, made with the meat from the rabbits he’d snared earlier. He was in the process of crumbling a loaf of stale bread into the pot to thicken it as Ciri and Jaskier returned from tethering the horses nearby. 

“Ciri,” Yennefer called. “We’ve got time for a lesson before…I suppose you could call this ‘supper.’”

“I don’t see you cooking anything,” Geralt rumbled placidly, not even bothering to look up from what he was doing.

“And you never will, if I can help it,” Yennefer retorted with a smirk. 

Ciri tried to school her expression, fighting the scowl that threatened to cross her face. “I’m tired,” she said, meeting Yennefer’s violet eyes.

“And yet, the work still exists,” Yennefer said crisply. “We’ll do one of the breathing exercises, that requires very little movement on our part.”

“They don’t work,” Ciri muttered, but she went to sit next to Yennefer anyway.

“And of course you expect results even after only a few weeks of trying,” the sorceress raised her eyebrows. “People spend their entire lives learning this, girl, even very accomplished and powerful people.”

If Ciri were honest, she would admit that she was only half-trying as Yennefer led her through the exercise, becoming easily distracted by everything going on around her. It had always been like this – the moment she attempted to narrow her focus, to concentrate on just one thing, like her own breathing, she found that all other stimuli intruded. They clamored for her attention, the way that Roach switched her tail in irritation when the gelding made any sort of noise, the way that the light dimmed as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Jaskier speaking in low tones with Geralt and then stealing a quick kiss – all of it sought to drive her purpose right out of her mind, and she was growing ever frustrated.

Yennefer was frustrated too, Ciri surmised by the way the woman pointedly refrained from comment after they finished the exercise and joined the men for supper. 

Jaskier was unusually quiet as they ate, being the first to finish his food and head down to the stream to wash his bowl. Ciri expected him to bring out his lute when he returned, but he didn’t. Instead he dug through his pack, eventually pulling out a carved wooden comb and his sewing kit.

“I don’t mean to disturb your meal, Ciri, but would you mind?” Jaskier showed her the comb and raised his eyebrows. “I’m of a disposition to braid something, and Geralt never lets me play with his hair.”

Geralt grunted. “There’s no need to be fancy with it if it just gets covered in blood and entrails later on.”

Ciri nearly choked on the bite of rabbit meat she was chewing – not put off, as she might have expected with such talk during mealtime, but amused at the idea of Geralt fighting a monster with silver sword and an elaborate braid in his white hair. She nodded to Jaskier, and the bard knelt on the ground behind her. He gently lifted her pale hair up from around her shoulders and pulled it back, running his fingers through it.

“I notice you didn’t ask to braid _my_ hair, Jaskier,” Yennefer drawled, setting her empty bowl down by her feet.

“Well, Yen, if I didn’t think you would fix it so that I’d end up braiding a handful of live snakes, I might,” Jaskier shot back.

Yennefer actually laughed.

Ciri relaxed into the feeling of the comb passing through her fine locks, and idly tried to remember the last time anyone had done this for her. She had maids who helped her prepare for the formal court functions, and the last time…

…The last time was the night of the ball days before Nilfgaard breached the city walls.

Trying desperately to find something to distract herself from _that_ memory, she asked a question. “Where did you learn how to braid hair, Jaskier?”

“I had an older sister, and we both learned it from my mother. I was never allowed to grow my hair long enough, and honestly if I tried this on myself I would be completely lost. But my sister was usually willing to let me. It’s a good skill to have. Tends to impress one’s long-haired lovers, when one can leave them satisfied _and_ with an elegant braid. _Most_ long-haired lovers, anyway.” Jaskier said pointedly.

“Gross,” Ciri said, but she was smiling at the squinty glare that Geralt directed at the man behind her. “You weren’t allowed long hair?”

Jaskier was quiet for a moment. “My father – if he _was_ my father – had very rigid ideas about how members of his family were to look and behave. We had to reflect well on him.”

Ciri felt the bard start to separate her hair into sections. “If?”

“I never looked much like him, and given my mother’s need to take love where she found it, it’s not unlikely that I was conceived on the wrong side of the blanket, so to speak. My father already had an heir, though – my older brother – so it didn’t matter as I wasn’t to inherit.”

“Inherit?” Ciri started to turn her head and Jaskier clucked his tongue at her, gently nudging her back so that she was facing ahead. “What would you inherit?”

“Well, nothing. My brother got the title, the lands, the fortune. I had a lesser title at one point, but after my mother died my father stripped it from me. But by then I was at Oxenfurt and didn’t give a monkey’s arse about any of it.” Jaskier’s fingers were deftly twisting the sections of hair together now.

Ciri was astonished. She never would have thought of Jaskier as a member of the nobility, for all that he had beautiful manners and was very well-spoken. Which was actually a point in favor of him _not_ being noble, she considered, remembering the way that some of the members of her grandmother’s court behaved. “What was your title?”

“Viscount de Lettenhove,” Jaskier answered in a bored tone. “It sounds pretty, doesn’t it? It’s a shithole. One of those tiny parcels that were all the rage a generation ago, when the dwindling Redanian upper class were desperate to maintain their power by dividing up the worst parts of their estates and granting them to members of the newly-prosperous middle class. Ready-made vassals, a source of income that wasn’t so low or laborious as _trade,_ and a buffer between them and their serfs.”

“Jaskier isn’t your real name, then?”

“What’s real?” Ciri could feel him shrug, though he didn’t lose his hold on her hair. “I’m not that person anymore. I haven’t been for a long time.”

Ciri’s tongue burned with the question that she was _not_ asking.

Jaskier chuckled. “I was born Julian Alfred Pankratz, though I’ll not answer if you call me by it.”

“Alfred!” Yennefer snorted.

“I quite agree, better to be named for a flower than for a disreputable old drunk of a great-uncle I never even met.” Jaskier held the braid fast with one hand and reached into his sewing kit with the other, retrieving a bit of pale green ribbon. He secured the braid with it, tucked in some wayward strands here and there, and pronounced it done.

Ciri reached a hand up and ran her fingers over his work, feeling smaller braids incorporated into one large one, which hung down her back. She wished she had a mirror so that she could see it. Certainly it _felt_ as though it looked nice.

“You have lovely hair, Ciri,” Jaskier murmured. “Your mother’s was the same.”

“You said I look like her,” she said, turning to face him.

“You do,” rumbled Geralt, startling both of them. “Destiny’s pull aside, I knew you as soon as I saw you.”

“Princess Pavetta wore her hair in a similar way at her betrothal feast,” Jaskier said, tugging lightly at Ciri’s braid. “She had better ribbons, of course. Gold ones.”

“You were there?!” Ciri gasped, her eyes wide.

“We both were. It was the bard’s idea.” Geralt’s tone was amused.

“Will you tell me?” begged Ciri. “My grandmother…she never spoke of it. She even forbade Mousesack to tell me.” She had a sudden flash of memory – of someone who looked like Mousesack but was not, telling her that Geralt had saved her father’s life and had claimed the Law of Surprise for the life debt to be paid.

“Queen Calanthe’s grief was deep,” Jaskier said distantly, as though lost in thought.

“Eist said it nearly killed her.” Ciri brought her knees up to her chest, folding her arms and resting her chin upon them.

“Grief doesn’t kill people,” Yennefer said. “But it feels as though it can.”

 _“Please_ tell me.” Ciri begged again.

Yennefer moved closer to where the rest of them were sitting, settling cross-legged on her bedroll. “I think I would like to hear it as well.” 

“Well, I’m not one for the telling,” Geralt said. “That’s your job, Jask.”

Jaskier didn’t start talking right away. He looked pensive. “I know I haven’t lived as long as you have, Geralt. Or you, Yen. But that night was…memorable, and for a mere human I have seen a great many things, been to a great many places. I was part of the entertainment for your mother’s betrothal feast, Ciri, and I asked Geralt –”

“Begged,” Geralt interjected.

 _“Asked._ Him to come with me, though I admit it took some persuading. I had something of a reputation, you see, and with the crowd expected to attend the feast it was bound to bite me in the arse at some point. I just needed a scary face to keep certain nobles away, nobles who might have still been violently upset that their lovers had found love in the arms of someone else. That someone being me, of course.”

“Gross,” Ciri said, and Geralt chuckled.

“Life is short, cub, so love easily and love often. Anyway, there were delegations from practically every kingdom, though your grandmother had already chosen the man who would marry your mother, Crach an Craite of Skellige.”

“What?!” Ciri exclaimed, shocked. “My uncle? Well, he’s sort of my uncle. He is Eist’s nephew.” Ciri took a moment to marvel at the fact that she could – as far as she knew – refer to one of her family members in the present tense.

“Calanthe wanted an alliance with Skellige and access to their fleets,” Geralt explained.

Ciri’s brow furrowed. “But Eist –”

“The Queen hadn’t accepted any of his proposals yet, cub, and I’m getting to that,” Jaskier grinned. “So I was giving the performance of my life – can you believe that ‘Fishmonger’ was the most popular song that night? Barbarians. While one by one, the suitors approached the Queen and asked for her daughter’s hand –”

“Fucking tedious night,” Geralt interrupted, and Jaskier glared at him.

“I thought you weren’t telling this story, Wolf.”

“Tell it faster, bard, I’m starting to relive it.” 

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Crach an Craite was just standing up to press his own suit, which everyone knew the Queen would accept, when there was a disturbance at the doors to the great hall. A knight clad in full armor burst in, stood in front of the entire assembly, and boldly declared himself for the princess. That was Lord Urcheon, your father. The Queen was…displeased.”

Geralt snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Indeed. She ordered him to remove his helmet, and he refused, making some excuse about a vow he’d taken. So Eist removed it for him.” Jaskier paused, drawing the moment out for dramatic effect. “He revealed himself to be under a curse, for he had a startling appearance, something like a cross between a man and a hedgehog. And the Queen ordered her guards to slay the beast.”

Geralt made a sudden movement, as though he were going to say something, but decided not to.

“Lord Urcheon fought bravely, but there were many guards and even more hot-headed noblemen in the room already spoiling for a fight. Your father might have died then and there, if not for Geralt.” Jaskier flashed a smile at the Witcher. “He was remarkable, Ciri. He leapt into the fight –”

“I didn’t leap,” Geralt muttered.

“Excuse me, I was there, you absolutely _did_ leap. You went right over the table, without spilling anyone’s wine. It was impressive.” Jaskier cleared his throat and continued. “The two of them fought back to back, until even the Queen drew steel and joined in. I, meanwhile, was comforting a poor, frightened noblewoman and staying well out of it.”

“Sensible of you,” Yennefer observed.

“I thought so,” Jaskier said, amused. “The Queen brought everything to a halt long enough for Lord Urcheon to explain himself. He’d been cursed as a child, resigned to living his life as something that others saw as a monster. But in his youth, he saved the life of King Roegner – that was the Queen’s first husband – and claimed the Law of Surprise as payment. The Queen was incensed, furious that her daughter had been committed by Destiny without her knowledge. But the Princess revealed that she and Lord Urcheon had fallen in love long before that night, meeting in secret when and where they could.”

Ciri’s eyes were wide, fascinated by this tale that she had never heard before. She’d gotten bits and pieces from some of the older retainers, but the justifiable fear of drawing Calanthe’s wrath prevented them from saying much. She had tried to imagine it, growing up and wondering about her parents as any orphan would, but it was nothing compared to what she was hearing.

“And it seemed as though your grandmother was coming around to the idea that Princess Pavetta and Lord Urcheon were destined for each other, but queens do not bend easily to anything outside their own will. She took a dagger and went for Lord Urcheon’s throat –”

“No!” Ciri gasped, completely caught up.

“Yes! But then your mother screamed in rage and repudiation of the attempt, and her voice called forth a power that sent everyone in the room flying back. Everyone except for Lord Urcheon.”

Yennefer perked up. “Hold on. You say her mother had this power?”

Tears suddenly stung Ciri’s eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. 

“She did,” Geralt confirmed. “And I heard Calanthe say that her own mother had it as well – it skipped a generation, it seems.”

“Thank the gods, Calanthe was fearsome enough without a power like that,” Jaskier said fervently, then looked stricken. “I mean no offense, Ciri –”

“It’s all right,” Ciri sniffed, and swiped a hand at her nose. “It’s the truth.” Jaskier put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a squeeze.

“And then, the most amazing in a series of amazing things, your mother and her knight started to rise into the air, as a magical wind whirled around them and made the most spectacular mess. The glazing in all the windows shattered, everything light enough to be made airborne was flying around the hall. They looked to be completely unaware of what was happening around them, and the Princess was whispering in Elder, looking into her beloved’s eyes and him gazing right back.”

“Did anyone die?” Ciri’s voice trembled only a little.

“No, cub. No one died from that, though a few were killed in the fight beforehand,” Geralt said truthfully, having been responsible for at least a couple of those deaths.

“Geralt somehow broke the spell, or your mother’s concentration – whatever he did, it made the Princess stop the wind and they returned to ground, and everything stilled. Destiny had made itself known, and by then even Queen Calanthe could not deny it. And Eist stood at her side and promised that the might of the Sea Hounds would back her, and declared that the Queen had finally accepted his proposal of marriage.”

“Somehow, in the middle of all of that uproar.” Geralt’s tone was wry. “She didn’t object to his announcement, at any rate.”

“The Queen herself performed the hand-fasting for your parents,” Jaskier smiled down at Ciri. “It was beautiful. I cried a little. The druid did the same for the Queen and Eist later on, but after your mother first kissed your father as a wife kisses her husband, there was a miracle.”

“A miracle?”

“The curse upon your father was lifted – no one was truly certain why, though the druid –”

“Mousesack,” Ciri supplied.

“Mousesack,” Jaskier agreed. “He said it was because the Queen blessed the union that Destiny had determined, and so Lord Urcheon was rewarded for it. But make no mistake, cub, though he turned out to be a handsome man, your mother loved him long before that, with no expectation that he would ever change. The Princess had a good heart, and your father was a very brave man.” 

Ciri pressed up closer to Jaskier, a mixture of painful and at the same time wonderful emotion swirling around inside her. Her parents felt more alive to her now than they ever had before, and she wished – oh, how she wished that Calanthe could have shared this with her, told her more about her mother, instead of keeping it all locked away. She had never truly felt the deprivation until now. And now…now it was too late.

She realized that Jaskier had stopped talking, and she nudged him. “And then what happened?”

Jaskier looked down at her, his face solemn, then glanced at Geralt. 

The Witcher shifted uncomfortably. “Then your father asked me what payment I would take, for saving his life. He was starting afresh, and he said that he didn’t want to do so in the shadow of a life debt. I told him…I told him I wanted nothing.”

Geralt shared a look with Jaskier that Ciri couldn’t begin to understand, then continued. “He insisted. And so…I claimed the Law of Surprise, just as he had.”

“Oh,” Ciri said in sudden realization.

“Yes.” Geralt briefly met her eyes, then looked away. “I’m sorry, cub. Ciri. I never intended to shackle a child to this way of life.”

“Is that why…is that why you stayed away?” Ciri was proud of the way that her voice was steady, and didn’t wobble.

“Yes.” Geralt’s mouth twitched momentarily into a rueful smile. “But still we found each other.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Ciri said, taking Jaskier’s hand.

“Yes, indeed,” Yennefer said suddenly. “That was most enlightening.” Jaskier glanced at her to see if her expression was one of mockery, but instead she looked thoughtful.

“I’m surprised he told it instead of singing it,” Geralt said. “Didn’t you say you were going to write a magnificent ballad about that night? I don’t think I’ve heard that one.”

Jaskier stiffened, his face suddenly full of melancholy and regret. “No one has.”

“Could you sing it for us?” pleaded Ciri.

The bard pressed his lips together, looking pained, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I cannot. It’s late, and my throat is as dry as a bone after all this talking.” Jaskier stood abruptly, pulling out of Ciri’s hold, and headed out of the ring of firelight toward the stream.

Geralt’s brow furrowed in confusion, and it wasn’t long before he followed.

Ciri looked in the direction the two men had gone, biting her lower lip in hesitation but burning with curiosity. Jaskier never, ever turned down an opportunity to sing – at least not in the time she’d known him. Granted, when he’d played for her at court those few times, he had been invited for his singing, not his company. But he’d been free with his music during these weeks together on the road.

“You want to follow them. Go on,” Yennefer said, her eyes almost glowing as they reflected the firelight. 

“I don’t think they’d want me to –”

“In my experience,” Yennefer interrupted. “Being where you’re not wanted means that you learn all kinds of things that you wouldn’t otherwise. Never trust that you’ll be told what you need to know at the time you’ll need to know it, Ciri.”

Yennefer was a very odd person, Ciri decided as she crept cautiously through the darkness while letting her eyes adjust to the moonlight. But the sorceress was wise about a lot of things.

She could hear Jaskier and Geralt talking quietly to each other at the edge of the stream, but wasn’t quite near enough to make out exactly what they were saying. Jaskier was leaning into Geralt, and as Ciri drew closer she heard Geralt’s rumbling murmur.

“You left out one of the more interesting parts of the story, Jask.”

“And which part was that?” Jaskier’s voice sounded tired and worn.

“This,” Geralt said, and tilted the bards face up so that he could press their lips together. 

“Oh,” Jaskier panted after they broke off the kiss. “Oh, now that’s unfair, I was drunk and you weren’t interested. How dare you try to make that romantic.”

Geralt chuckled. “I wasn’t uninterested. Just out of sorts and out of practice, to be honest.”

“Well, if you’re ever in need of practice, you know where to find me.” Jaskier laid his head against Geralt’s chest for a moment. “The courteous thing to do would be to offer to let me practice braiding your hair in return.”

“Why would I do that, when Ciri is just right there?” Geralt asked, amused. “Aren’t you, Ciri?”

“Fuck,” Ciri said, and stepped out from behind the tree she’d been using as cover. “How did you know?”

“You make noise, cub. It’s late and we still have distance to cover tomorrow. Best get some sleep.” Geralt gently herded her back toward the camp, letting Jaskier follow in his own time.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

_Lazlo was trying to tell her something, but the words could not get past the black arrow in his throat._

_The city was burning. Their people were wailing, crying and shrieking._

_It had been a normal market day just yesterday._

_A horse screamed, and Ciri turned._

_There was the rider, all in black, and he was coming towards her._

_Ciri tried to run. She had to leave Lazlo behind. The Lioness had said, Geralt of Rivia._

_But the hoofbeats were growing louder behind her, she felt as if her heart would burst –_

_She was swept up and over the saddle, its horn pressing painfully into her ribs and stomach as the dark horse continued to gallop outside the city walls._

_Ciri screamed._

Her stomach hurt when she woke, but not because she was sick from Geralt’s cooking. She was sick from the memories, and the fear, and she just wanted it to stop. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for her to have lost so much and to continually lose it over and over again, she couldn’t bear it. 

She could see little by the light of the moon, but she knew that Geralt was watching her. He always knew where she was, and after so long a time of not knowing that herself she had found a lot of comfort in it. But she felt guilty for disturbing his sleep.

“You all right, cub?” The voice in the darkness rumbled.

Ciri blinked back tears and turned over in her bedroll, and lied. “I’m fine.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The day’s travel was more subdued than usual. Jaskier rode with Ciri for the first part of the day, and he did try more than once to get a conversation going, but Ciri wasn’t in the mood to talk. It seemed that none of them were, setting up camp in relative silence about an hour before sundown. 

Yennefer was just finishing up the nightly lesson with Ciri when Jaskier returned from watering the horses after supper. The bard went to his pack without a word to anyone. He removed his new coat, shivering slightly in the cold while just in his shirt, then shrugged on his best doublet, the faded green one he’d worn when they’d found him at the inn in Lyria. He took his lute out of its case, lovingly tuning the strings before squaring his shoulders, and joining the rest of them around the fire.

He didn’t sit, and he had eyes only for Ciri as he strummed softly, a quiet warm-up.

“Just once,” he said. “For you, Princess. And your parents.”

And then Jaskier began to sing.

_There never was a love_

_Before that night or after_

_As when a princess found her knight_

_And a life of care and laughter_

_O I heard it on the breeze, love_

_It will bring you to your knees, love_

_Promised to another_

_And resigned to fate_

_Suitor after suitor_

_Her heart’s burden great_

_Fortune flew in like a gale, love_

_And the peace grew ever frail, love_

_The knight had spine to spare_

_Standing tall before the queen_

_With naught but hope to carry_

_Unmasked, his cursed face seen_

_They came for him like a squall, love_

_And it seemed that he would fall, love_

_Courage found an ally_

_White Wolf came to his aid_

_The two of them fought bravely_

_With axe and silver blade_

_The queen came in like the wind, love_

_And the fight around them dimmed, love_

_Surprise brought them together_

_A life debt to be healed_

_The princess joined his side_

_Their secret love revealed_

_The attendance held its breath, love_

_But the queen was bringing death, love_

_The princess raised her voice_

_As her mother’s aim was true_

_Her scream became a power_

_As the wind around them blew_

_The lovers rose into a storm, love_

_It was fate, but given form, love_

_When the dust had settled_

_Their hands the queen did fast_

_And then she joined her Sea Hound_

_The two to wed at last_

_And her kiss was like a sigh, love_

_The curse, its end was nigh, love_

_To start anew they wanted_

_To give a Wolf his prize_

_For new love brought new life_

_A Child of Surprise_

_O I heard it on the breeze, love_

_And it brought me to my knees, love_

The last chord seemed to echo through the stillness, and Jaskier drew a shaking, raspy breath, his eyes shining and wet with tears.

Ciri didn’t think that she could speak. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t _breathe_ – and then she sobbed once. And it was as if the floodgates had opened. She felt _everything,_ all of the grief and pain and worry and fear that she’d had to push aside just to survive, after she’d lost it all, and it was coming out in huge, gasping sobs that were racking her small body.

Yennefer was instantly at her side, putting her arms around her, and Geralt was there not long after, the two of them surrounding her with comforting warmth as she wept.

The tears blurred her vision so that she couldn’t see anything but smudges of light and dark, but through her own cries she heard Jaskier’s voice.

“I’m sorry. This was a mistake.”

It took longer than she would have believed to calm down, with Yennefer stroking her hair and rocking her back and forth. Geralt seemed to be fumbling for the right thing to do, alternating between squeezing her shoulder and awkwardly patting her back. 

“All right, Ciri?” The Witcher asked gruffly, concern in his golden eyes.

Ciri took a shivery breath and scrubbed at her face with her hands. She’d never been a graceful weeper, which is why she tried to avoid doing it as much as possible. She was sure that she looked awful, with a red nose and blotchy cheeks, but she found that she could answer Geralt truthfully.

“I’m all right.” She looked around their camp. “Where’s Jaskier?”

“I think he went to be with the horses, Ciri,” Yennefer said quietly. 

Ciri stood abruptly, pulling out of Yennefer’s embrace, and made her way quickly but carefully to where the horses were tied. 

She saw Jaskier running his hand down Roach’s neck, over and over, and heard soft hitches in his breath as he pressed his forehead to the mare’s white blaze. 

“I’m sorry, dear girl,” said the bard, his voice thick. “As always I am in awe of your seemingly endless patience with me.”

“Jaskier,” Ciri called softly, hesitantly, and he turned, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes and taking a deep breath. He looked so sad that Ciri hugged him without thinking twice about it. “Are you all right?”

Jaskier gave a watery chuckle. “It is not for you to comfort _me,_ cub. They were yours, not mine. If anyone has the right of sorrow, it’s you.”

“I –” Ciri began, then swallowed hard. “I didn’t even know them. But now I feel…I feel more like I did. Thank you for singing to me tonight. It wasn’t a mistake.”

The bard was quiet for a moment. “You’re welcome, Princess.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Exhausted by the day’s ebb and flow of emotion, having been helpless against it as though it were the tide governed by the moon, Ciri fell asleep quickly. And for once, she dreamed no dreams at all.


	3. Chapter 3

The essential thing about Ard Carraigh, the thing that it was known for – other than being Kaedwen’s capital – was its bath houses. The natural hot springs just beneath the ground the city was built on had been an area of study for Jaskier when he was at Oxenfurt mastering the seven liberal arts, and he’d visited them personally twice before in his life. Knowing that their path to Kaer Morhen would bring them through Ard Carraigh, and knowing Geralt as well as he did, he decided that for the Witcher to agree to stop and enjoy the springs he would need to be outnumbered.

And so, the bard casually brought up the bath houses in front of both Yennefer and Ciri as they traveled, describing the different ones he’d been to in colorful detail – omitting mention of the more lurid amenities a few _particular_ bath houses had to offer, for Ciri’s sake. He didn’t even need to persuade them – after weeks on the road in late autumn, the mere mention of bath houses and hot water instantly had them on his side, regardless of the expense. They had been careful since the war camp in Aedirn, but Yennefer could still earn a good amount of coin even if she had to be quieter about it.

Jaskier tried not to resent her for it. It wasn’t her fault that times were hard, and that people had to be prudent in prioritizing their spending. Unfortunately it seemed as though art was always at the bottom of everyone’s list. Still, he was usually good enough to get them extra food or other small goods.

He felt that he was at least in a better position than Geralt, whose only means of bringing in any income was to take contracts. But hunts took time, and they were risky, and with winter on their heels time was not something they had to spare. When the true winter snow set in, the path to Kaer Morhen would become impassable, and it was remote enough that they would be in real trouble if they ended up stranded outside its walls.

One night’s delay surely couldn’t hurt, however, and though Geralt grumbled when his suggestion to just pass through Ard Carraigh was overruled, it was just his baseline level of grumbling. That was as good as an endorsement, as far as Jaskier was concerned.

It seemed as though the war had not quite yet reached this far north. The city was crowded, but it was not flooded with refugees the way the cities and towns further south had been. There were rooms available at one of the larger, more reputable bath houses at a relatively reasonable price, and Yennefer paid for two of them. 

“Why are there wash basins and tubs in the rooms, if this is a bath house?” Ciri asked, confused after exploring the room she would be sharing with Yennefer.

“Because the common bathing pools are not for washing – they’re for soaking,” Jaskier explained. “They try to keep them as clean as possible, so patrons actually wash themselves _before_ they get into the baths. It means you’re not soaking in someone else’s dirt, cub.”

“Oh,” Ciri wrinkled her nose at the thought. “That’s good. Er, how, um, common are the common pools?”

“There’s a side for men and a side for women, with a thin curtain going across the middle so that you can still talk to people on the other side without everyone getting an eyeful,” Jaskier assured her. “Try not to worry about it – it’s completely normal here. Everyone will be focused on their own relaxation, not on anyone else.”

“Shall we have a soak before supper? There’s plenty of time,” Yennefer suggested, and Jaskier thought she was trying not to sound too eager.

In this, though, the bard and the sorceress were united. “Absolutely!” Jaskier said brightly. “We’ll have a quick wash and meet you down there.”

He grabbed Geralt’s arm and tugged his Witcher into their room, kicking the door shut behind them. One of the best things about the older bath houses were the water pumps in each room that that could draw hot water directly from the springs with a few pumps of the handle – or more, if one cared to try to fill the tubs for a more private soak. 

Jaskier filled the washbasin with steaming water before stripping off his coat and doublet, and was reaching for a clean cloth when he was suddenly crowded against the side table, a firm body pressed up behind him, strong hands settling on his hips.

“It’s been a while since we last had a room,” Geralt rumbled suggestively.

“Yes, and you wanted to just ride straight through instead of taking advantage of the last nice thing we’ll have before we reach Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier replied, placing a hand over one of Geralt’s. As much as he was looking forward to getting into the bathing pool and not coming out until his fingers were as wrinkly as a weathered apple, he couldn’t deny the appeal of just staying in the room. With Geralt.

“Hmm.” Geralt nosed at Jaskier’s ear. “You fixed that, though, didn’t you.”

“Yennefer is much scarier than I am, and frankly so is Ciri.” Jaskier turned to catch Geralt’s lips. “So you’d best remember that if your intentions are to keep them waiting. But then you’d be depriving yourself as well.”

“I’ve had baths before, Jask,” Geralt said dismissively. 

“Not like this, which I know because you never would have ridden by if you’d availed yourself of the springs in the past.” Jaskier turned all the way around, crossing his wrists behind the Witcher’s neck. “You’re allowed to indulge yourself once in a while, Wolf.” He gave him a quick peck on the lips and then dragged his hands down to start working on the buttons on Geralt’s shirt.

“I thought that’s what I was doing,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier was well-practiced at chivvying Geralt into things, however, and he managed to get them both clean and into the robes the bath house provided, though they were later than they might have been.

All of the bath houses in the city were similarly built, with the bathing pools at the ground level and the common room and inn built over them. There were no windows in the walls around the pools for decency’s sake, so the torches and braziers gave off a dim, warm light which reflected off the rippling surface of the water. As Jaskier had said, there was a thin, translucent curtain hanging from the ceiling, separating the pool into two halves. Light could pass through it, and so could the vague outlines of the people on the other side, but in general modesty was preserved. 

They were far from the only ones who were enjoying a pre-meal soak, and for this reason Jaskier suppressed an indecent groan as he lowered himself into the water. It was just this side of too hot, and many of those who came to partake in the springs often had to get in and out of the water to avoid becoming overheated. But the water, enriched as it was from the minerals in the ground beneath it, felt wonderful on his sore muscles. And for the old wound on his side, easing away the dull ache he was feeling after traveling so far on foot. He was managing just fine, especially when he rode along with the others. But damn. The water felt good.

From the way that Geralt settled himself on the stone bench beneath the water and leaned back with a sigh, Jaskier thought that the Witcher felt the same. He’d never asked Geralt if his scars pained him – the big man healed quickly, and wasn’t the type to complain about physical discomfort in any circumstance. Jaskier remembered that even after being knocked down, tossed about, and bitten by a Cemetaur trying to eat him alive, Geralt had brushed off any concern over his _numerous_ wounds and took the creature’s head back to the village to be paid. Behavior like that was why people believed that Witchers couldn’t feel.

“Told you,” Jaskier said smugly. 

“And it took you two long enough,” came Yennefer’s voice on the other side of the curtain. 

“We’re here now, aren’t we?” Geralt didn’t even open his eyes. “All right, cub?”

“Yes,” Ciri replied with a sigh. “This is the best bath I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“Just goes to show that you should always listen to Jaskier,” the bard commented.

 _“That_ is not true,” Yennefer said, while at the same time Geralt snorted in amusement.

“You’re both lucky that I am far too relaxed to care about such disrespect,” Jaskier said loftily, and sank down so that he ducked his head briefly under the water. He blinked water out of his eyes and gazed around their half of the pool. Most of the other men were sitting in groups, talking amongst themselves. It wasn’t uncommon for business in Ard Carraigh to be conducted in a bath house, it was such an integral part of the city’s culture. But Jaskier felt a twinge of unease when he caught the eye of a man sitting on his own, looking over at them. No, not at them. At Geralt. 

Jaskier considered himself to be fairly good at reading people, but he had trouble interpreting the expression on the man’s face. Lust, he would have easily recognized – who wouldn’t lust after Geralt? He’d seen lustful looks directed at the Witcher many, many times, though a lot of them were often tinged with a kind of anticipatory fear. But the hunger in this look seemed unrelated to sex. 

Jaskier didn’t like it.

But it was only mere moments before the man, seemingly finished with his soak, climbed out of the water using the steps carved into the low stone wall of the pool, and disappeared into the changing room.

Geralt followed the man’s exit with one eye cracked open. “Hmm.”

“Did you know him?” Jaskier asked quietly.

“No.”

“Perhaps he knew you, then.”

“Not likely. But many of the fanatics who sacked Kaer Morhen years ago came from around here. Feelings get passed down through the generations.” Geralt didn’t seem troubled by it. Indeed, he’d been dealing with anti-Witcher sentiment for likely all of his long life, even with Jaskier’s efforts to win people over through song.

The rest of their soak was very pleasant, although Jaskier felt that the large room could have done with some music. But he never would have taken his lute into such a humid atmosphere – he risked warp and wood rot just from traveling as much as he did. 

Yennefer and Ciri opted to stay in the pool a little longer, neither of them quite yet willing to remove themselves from such a luxury. But Jaskier was feeling a bit…musical.

“Take a bath with your Witcher…” he sang softly, as he shut the door to their room behind them.

Geralt gave him an unimpressed look, a slight line of annoyance appearing between his brows. Jaskier grinned at him, inspired. 

_When a humble bard_

_Graced to share a room_

_With Geralt of Rivia_

_Along came this tune_

“That doesn’t even rhyme,” Geralt growled.

“It does, it’s called an imperfect rhyme,” Jaskier retorted.

“It’s definitely that.”

“I’m unappreciated in my time,” Jaskier said mournfully. 

Geralt snaked an arm around his waist. “I’d appreciate you more if you put that mouth to another use.”

Jaskier took advantage of the access that the bath house robes afforded, worming a hand inside Geralt’s until he could wrap his fingers around the Witcher’s cock. He stroked teasingly, matching it with soft kisses and nips just below Geralt’s jaw, and felt more than heard a pleased rumble in the big man’s chest.

It was a marvel that he got to have this, Jaskier thought wildly as the strong arm around his waist tightened, and Geralt pulled them so close that almost their entire bodies were pressed together. After so many years of wanting, finally having the freedom to touch Geralt like this, and to be touched in return… He was determined never to let it become any less marvelous. 

The bard squeaked in surprise when Geralt suddenly slid his hands around his thighs and hoisted him up, and Jaskier hooked his ankles together at the small of Geralt’s back, gripping his shoulders tightly. The Witcher brought their lips together as he shuffled them over to the bed.

“Don’t you dare drop me,” Jaskier mumbled against Geralt’s mouth, tightening his grip even further.

Geralt’s amber eyes looked back at him innocently, but a small smile played about his lips, and he was exaggeratedly gentle when he set Jaskier down and then climbed onto the bed himself, urging the bard back with caresses and kisses and small swats that made Jaskier gasp.

Jaskier ended up with his back against the headboard and Geralt leaning over him, all muscle and sinew and scars, his white hair slightly wavy from the damp heat of the springs. His robe was hanging open now, offering a tantalizing glimpse of his cock, and suddenly Jaskier had to see everything, every bit of him. He shoved the thin fabric off of the Witcher’s broad shoulders, and Geralt obliged, shifting his arms so that the sleeves fell away and allowed the robe to slither down to the floor.

“Do you have the oil?” Jaskier asked breathily, doing the same with his own robe.

Geralt reached over him, to where his saddlebag was hanging from the corner bedpost. He withdrew a vial, which Jaskier couldn’t help but inspect carefully. Geralt claimed to be able to recognize all of his potions from touch alone, and Jaskier _almost_ completely believed him. Still, it was always better to make sure.

But when Jaskier held his hand out for the vial, Geralt drew it away, drizzling some of it in his palm before taking Jaskier’s cock in hand and giving him some firm strokes. Jaskier sucked in a breath and thrust his hips up reflexively. Geralt’s hands were so gods-damned _warm._

“Easy,” Geralt rumbled, moving to straddle Jaskier’s legs. “We’ve only just started, Jask.” With that he added some more oil to his hand, coating his fingers thoroughly. Then he reached behind himself.

Jaskier made a strangled noise of surprise, looking up into Geralt’s eyes and seeing nothing but desire, slightly tinged with amusement. He set himself to worshipping the broad chest in front of him, running his tongue across Geralt’s collar bone, letting his fingers delicately trace the lines of muscle and feeling a thrill of satisfaction when he heard the other man moan. His lips traveled downward, moving to capture one nipple while his fingers toyed with the other, relishing the quiver of pleasure he felt in response. 

Geralt withdrew his fingers from himself with a grunt and pulled them closer to each other, arranging it so that he could more easily sink down onto Jaskier’s cock. Which he did in one, smooth movement, seating himself fully before Jaskier realized what was happening.

The bard groaned and threw his head back, desperately running through his dusty memories of the geometry he’d learned, hated – and barely mastered – at Oxenfurt. The feeling of Geralt’s tight heat squeezing his cock was exquisite, and he had to distract himself or else he wouldn’t last. 

And then Geralt began to move, his lovely thighs flexing with each rise and fall, and Jaskier could do nothing but scrabble at his back, digging in his fingernails before one of his grasping hands found its way into Geralt’s hair. He tugged, and Geralt’s back arched beautifully, his chest pushing closer to Jaskier’s face. The only possible course of action was to lavish more attention there, nuzzling the dark hair and mouthing at hard muscle.

Jaskier brought his other hand to his mouth, licking a wide stripe over his palm before wrapping it around Geralt’s cock, so that Geralt was fucking his fist at the same time he was fucking himself. He heard an answering grunt at the additional stimulation, and felt Geralt clench down around him. All of the geometry in the world couldn’t stop Jaskier from coming with a shout, tightening his grip on Geralt at the same time. After grinding down on Jaskier and a few more short thrusts into his hand, Geralt came as well, spilling his release onto Jaskier’s chest.

They remained locked together for a moment, leaning in towards each other and recovering their breath, before Geralt finally lifted himself up and off. Jaskier wriggled down on the bed, splaying himself out and closing his eyes. He only twitched a little when he felt a warm, damp cloth wiping him down. He reached out to grasp Geralt’s wrist and insistently pulled him into bed, rolling over so that the Witcher was pressed up against his back.

There was still supper to be had, Jaskier knew, but he was weighing hunger against exhaustion, and his exhaustion was winning. He was halfway towards sleep when he felt Geralt’s fingers dragging softly across his back, his touch a silent question that he couldn’t help but keep asking every time he saw Jaskier’s own scars.

“It’s not a very interesting tale,” Jaskier said lightly, his eyes still closed. “Quite boring, in fact.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Geralt said, but his tone belied his need to know.

Jaskier sighed. “There’s not much to tell, really. I was hungry, and without any coin. It wasn’t exactly in a time or place where I could sing for my supper. I got caught. I consider myself lucky.”

Geralt growled in disbelief. “Lucky?”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, stroking Geralt’s arm with fingers that were trembling slightly. “I made it out with both of my hands.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

They were sorry to leave Ard Carraigh – or at least Jaskier was sorry, and he suspected that Ciri and Yennefer were, too. But the weather, while cold, was clear and brisk, and there was very little wind as they continued their way north, out of the valley and into the foothills of the mountains. Jaskier felt perfectly fine walking the entire day. It was rumored that the hot springs had magical healing properties, but he thought that there was very little that was _not_ healing about time to rest and a proper soak. No need for magic when you had that.

Jaskier could sense Geralt’s unease as they set up camp for the evening. The Witcher kept peering across the road into the woods on the other side, his practiced movements slow and distracted. 

“Oh for Lilit’s sake, what is the matter with you?” Yennefer asked, irritated, when Geralt didn’t immediately move out of her way as she was laying out her bedroll.

“There’s something out there,” Geralt said, his golden eyes fixed as though he could actually see what was bothering him.

“How do you know?” Jaskier asked quietly, in the midst of wrapping the waterskins together in a blanket. It was cold enough now that they might freeze overnight.

Geralt tapped his medallion without speaking, his fingers lingering on the engraved wolf’s head just for a moment. “If it’s close enough for me to feel it here, it’s too close.” He squared his shoulders, suddenly decided. “I’m going to find it.”

“I am _not_ cooking,” Yennefer said firmly.

“We’ll count our blessings later,” Geralt said wryly. “We’ve bread, cheese, and meat. There’s no need to cook tonight.”

“I’m coming with you,” Ciri said, starting to pull her boots back onto her feet.

“No, you’re not,” all three adults said in unison, and then looked at each other, startled.

“You’re staying here with Yen and Jaskier,” Geralt said firmly, moving to re-saddle Roach.

“Oi!” Jaskier protested, following. “I’m coming along.”

“No,” Geralt grunted, pushing Roach’s nose away gently when she irritably head-butted his shoulder at this indication that her day was not over yet. “You’re going to stay and –”

“And what?” Jaskier said, raising his eyebrows. “You weren’t going to say ‘protect Ciri.’ What could I possibly do that Yennefer could not? None of us should be on our own.”

“Jaskier –”

Jaskier transformed his anger and worry into good-natured annoyance before it showed on his face. He reached out and patted Geralt’s cheek impertinently. “It’s adorable that you think I won’t just follow you anyway.”

Geralt scowled at him, but didn’t pursue the argument. The sun was already down, and the remaining light was fading quickly. Jaskier watched as the Witcher pulled a dark-colored potion from his saddlebag and gulped it down, squeezing his eyes shut. When Geralt opened his eyes again, they were fully black. He shrugged on the harness of his double scabbard, and swung himself up into the saddle.

To Jaskier’s surprise, he was offered a hand up.

“You’ll get lost if you try to follow me in the dark,” Geralt grumbled as he pulled Jaskier up to sit behind him. 

Jaskier just smiled and wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

They started to walk, leading Roach behind them, after they found the first body. A man, middle-aged, his throat cut and his life’s blood soaked into the near-frozen ground beneath him. The next body was propped up against a tree, this time with blood staining the top half of her dress. Her throat had also been cut.

“Geralt…” Jaskier was uneasy. He’d been on many hunts with the Witcher through the years, had seen people killed in much more gruesome ways than this. But these didn’t look like monster kills. They looked like murders. “What do you think it is?”

“Bait,” Geralt said, barely controlled rage evident in his tone. “I think it’s bait.”

“Ah. Of course. Just so. Um…bait for what?”

But Geralt silenced him with a hand on his shoulder, transferring Roach’s reins into the bard’s hands. The Witcher crept forward, drawing his silver blade without making a sound, disappearing into the darkness ahead.

Jaskier stroked Roach’s neck, more to calm himself than to calm her. He strained to hear any sign of Geralt, or anything really. The waiting, especially out in the open, was always the worst part. 

A cold wind blew, causing Jaskier to shiver and huddle closer to Roach, shamelessly using her as a wind break. The chestnut mare’s ears went flat, and she let out a high nicker. Jaskier thought he heard a whisper of something off to the left, but it was impossible to tell what it might be – he was no Witcher. His hearing wasn’t even as good as Roach’s. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Geralt suddenly loom in front of them, and he bit back an oath, hanging onto one of the stirrups as his foot caught on something and caused him to stumble. 

“Take Roach and go back to the camp,” Geralt said, turning his head slightly as he swept his gaze around them. “It’s coming.”

 _“What’s_ coming?” Jaskier hissed. 

“Alghoul,” came the answer, and Jaskier’s stomach plummeted in fear. He’d only seen an Alghoul once before, one leading a pack of lesser ghouls. It had been a fearsome fight, or at least what he’d seen of it, since one of the ghouls had spotted him and he’d had to run for his life.

“It’s been baited. Lured here by the blood, and living prey,” Geralt continued, his mouth twisting in disgust.

“Living?”

“Not far ahead. There’s a boy, tied to a tree. He’s still alive. Alive and bleeding, and the Alghoul is coming for him.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Jaskier said, horrified. “What can I –”

“You can leave,” Geralt said fiercely. “Go back to the camp.”

“Not likely,” Jaskier scoffed. “I can’t see in the dark, Geralt.”

Geralt grunted, as if the poor quality of human night vision were personally offensive to him. “Then stay well clear. If the Alghoul can’t have its meal, it will look elsewhere. I have to kill it tonight, or it may well follow us, or other travelers.”

“All right, we’ll stay out of your way,” Jaskier said. “Just –” He grabbed a handful of Geralt’s coat – he wasn’t even wearing his armor – and kissed him. “Be safe.”

It was difficult to read Geralt’s expression when his eyes were like this, but Jaskier thought he looked slightly surprised. His face cleared quickly, though, settling into the familiar grim countenance that he usually had when hunting monsters. “Take Roach off that way. You’ll be further away from the bodies and the boy.”

Again Jaskier set himself to waiting in the dark, loosely holding Roach’s reins. He trusted her to take care of herself – if she felt the need to run, he’d take his cue from her, and he didn’t care to be yanked off of his feet in the process. “Like old times, isn’t it, dear girl?”

Roach blew at him, her ears swiveling back and forth.

A wheezing howl split the silence, and Jaskier tensed, his hand creeping toward his left sleeve. He was beginning to consciously notice that instinct less and less. He supposed this is what happened when one started carrying weapons. There was a blue flash that briefly illuminated the trees, and the sounds of snarling and struggle. Then an orange blast of flame, which suddenly expanded and lit up in a blindingly white flare, leaving purple spots dancing when Jaskier’s vision cleared. There was a roar of pain – _Geralt._ Roach reared up in alarm, and Jaskier labored to coax her down. His heart was pounding – whatever that flash had been, it had set some of the surrounding brush on fire, lighting up Geralt’s location like a beacon.

Run. Or stay. There wasn’t really any choice to be made.

Jaskier tried to move as quickly as he could, the fire ahead made navigating the uneven terrain a little easier. He thought Roach might be following behind him, but he wasn’t sure – and he hadn’t wanted to drag her anywhere close. He kept half an eye out for the Alghoul, but his attention was on Geralt, who was kneeling in the middle of a broken ring of flame, leaning on his silver sword. There was a smell – some kind of dusty chemical odor in the air. Behind the Witcher, thankfully untouched by the fire, was a tree. It was as Geralt had said – the boy was tied, ropes looped around his arms and torso, and gagged, but his legs were free and kicking. 

That was good. Kicking meant he was still alive. Jaskier ignored the boy for the moment and touched Geralt’s shoulder. “Geralt?”

“Did I get it?”

Jaskier glanced around, but saw no sign of the Alghoul except the deep scrapes in the ground where the initial fight had occurred. “It’s not here. Did…did you do that?”

“I used Igni on it, but something… _happened.”_ Geralt groped for him, gripping his hand tightly when he found it. “Jask, I can’t fucking see.”

“Here, let me look,” Jaskier said, keeping his hands steady as he tilted Geralt’s face toward him. “Just let me take a look.”

With an effort, Geralt forced his eyes open, and Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath. Geralt’s eyes were still black, but they were speckled through with white, like stars at a great distance, like looking into the night sky. It might have been beautiful under any other circumstances.

Jaskier swallowed hard. “All right. It’s going to be all right. I’m going to get the boy, and Roach, and we’ll get back to camp and Yen will fix this. It’s all ri–”

“I’m afraid that it’s not,” came a voice, and Jaskier jerked his head up.

A man stood in front of them, clad all in black. He’d been smoking a pipe, and was now tapping the bowl against the blade of his sword to empty the ashes. His hair was steel gray and cropped close. His eyes were pale silver, and seemed to shine in the firelight.

“Who the fuck are you,” Geralt growled, getting to his feet. He didn’t let go of Jaskier’s hand, holding it as though it were a lifeline.

“A hunter, like you,” the man gave a humorless chuckle that sounded more like a death rattle. “Sort of like you.” He put the pipe into his pocket, and with his arm out of the way Jaskier could see something familiar hanging around his neck.

“Are you a Witcher?” The bard asked hesitantly. The man certainly had a Witcher-esque bearing, but he wasn’t like Geralt. Of course, no one was.

“You like my trophies?” The man tapped the medallions hanging from the silver chain. “Griffin. Cat. And now a Wolf, for my collection.”

“You hunt Witchers,” Geralt said, in realization.

“The only true challenge left in this world,” the man replied, his face cold and expressionless. “I was on my way to Kaer Morhen – much as I assume _you_ are – to collect a Wolf medallion. And then fortune smiled upon me, practically dropping you in my lap.”

“The bath house.” Jaskier gritted his teeth, running through an impressive litany of curses in his mind, in all the languages he knew. This was the man from the pool, he recognized him now. “So you killed those people, set the boy out for bait, for – what? A necklace?”

“You make it sound trivial,” the man’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes glinted. “I assure you that my hunts are anything but.”

“Jask, get the boy and go,” Geralt said, trying to release Jaskier’s hand. But Jaskier was having none of it, maintaining his grip firmly.

“I have no interest in anything but the mutant,” the man said, hefting his sword into a ready stance. It was clear that he knew how to handle it.

“Perhaps you should _take_ an interest,” Jaskier snapped, shifting behind Geralt slightly, squeezing his hand in warning. 

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because there are worse things in these woods than you. Geralt, Aard!”

Geralt’s hand shot up, three fingers extended, and a flash of blue light hit the man off-center, knocking him back a few steps. The man kept his feet, which was impressive, but he only realized that he was within reach of the Alghoul’s claws when the creature behind him seized him around the middle.

The bastard was definitely a skilled swordsman, whirling quickly to slash his steel blade across the Alghoul’s half-scorched face. The monster howled and let go, and the man staggered, pressing his hand against the deep wounds in his side. The Alghoul shook its head, snarling, and charged – not at the swordsman, but toward Geralt.

“Igni!” Jaskier shouted, and again Geralt thrust out his hand, making the fire sign and sending a huge burst of flame right into the beast’s face. Jaskier pulled them to the side as the Alghoul’s momentum carried it past them.

Without Jaskier needing to say anything, Geralt turned and swung his silver sword down, cutting a deep gash into the creature’s neck, and the Alghoul let out a choking scream, its limbs going limp as it collapsed. Black ichor started to pool around and under where it fell, just a claws’ length away from the poor boy tied to the tree. The boy’s eyes were huge in his face, staring down at the monster that he’d been bled to draw close.

“Where is that fucking –” Geralt turned back blindly, in search of the Witcher hunter. 

“I don’t see him,” Jaskier said, panting from sheer nerves. “The Alghoul wounded him, maybe he ran off.”

“Fuck!” Geralt shouted, his teeth bared in helpless fury. “May the fucker die of rot.”

Jaskier tried to tug his hand free of Geralt’s, but the Witcher’s grip was painfully tight. “Geralt, I’ve got to get the boy. Let go, I’ll be right back.”

Geralt reluctantly uncurled his fingers, weaving slightly on his feet as though the loss of contact were disorienting. Jaskier moved quickly to the boy, first removing the filthy rag that had been used to gag him, then drawing his knife and sawing through the ropes. He’d have to borrow Geralt’s whetstone to put a decent edge back onto the small blade.

The boy coughed and spat, trying to work up some moisture in his mouth. There was a cut on his arm that was still bleeding sluggishly, but Jaskier was glad not to see any rope burns on the boy’s dark brown skin. 

“Did you say Geralt?” The boy asked, his voice rasping painfully. “Geralt of Rivia?”

“The same,” Jaskier replied, trying to inject some cheer into his tone. He made a mental note to get the waterskin from Roach, when they found her. This youth needed a drink.

“I…I knew someone who was looking for you.” The boy scrubbed at his face before shaking out his arms.

Geralt grunted. “We met him.”

“No, not him,” the boy shook his head, even though Geralt wasn’t able to see the gesture. “Just…a girl. A girl I knew.”

Jaskier glanced sharply at Geralt, whose mouth was set in a thin line. He put a smile on his face when he turned back. “I think it would be best for you to come with us, lad. Er…those other people…were they –”

“I hardly knew them,” the boy said, his dark eyes sad. “Bonhart – that was the man – he said he had some paid work for anyone willing to go a day’s ride out of Ard Carraigh, and we were all that desperate…”

“Never mind,” Jaskier said. “You come along with us, we’ll get you fed and looked after.”

Geralt seemed glad to have hold of Jaskier’s hand again as they made their way back toward Roach, who nickered when catching sight of them. 

“Up you get, Wolf,” Jaskier said, steering Geralt around and guiding his hand down so that he could feel the stirrup. “I’ll…well, I guess I’ll lead us back?”

It took longer than Jaskier would have liked, since he was trying to hold his concern for Geralt at bay as they fumbled around in the dark. But Roach, bless her, had an excellent sense of direction and was quite used to making her way around after sunset. They spotted the light from the camp fire up ahead, and Jaskier gladly quickened his pace toward familiarity and much-needed help.

“What happened?” Yennefer asked sharply, her violet eyes taking in Geralt, who was gripping the saddle horn tightly and had his eyes firmly shut against the firelight.

 _“Dara?!”_ Ciri cried, incredulously.

The boy straightened next to Jaskier, his mouth hanging open in absolute shock. “Ciri?”

Ciri flew at him, her arms pulling the boy into a tight hug as she babbled questions. “Dara, where did you go? I thought you would have gone back to Brokilon – I hoped –”

“They wouldn’t take me back,” Dara whispered, his face filled with shame. “Not when they saw that you weren’t with me. They didn’t kill me, but they wouldn’t take me back.”

“What. The fuck. Is going on.” Geralt’s growl still had an edge to it as he dismounted clumsily, without his usual fluid grace. 

“Yen, you’ve got to heal Geralt – there was some kind of a bright flash and now he can’t see,” Jaskier said quickly, trying to get things to happen in the proper order. Explanations could wait until it was certain no one had lost their eyes.

Yennefer took Geralt’s hand and led him closer to the fire, pressing him down to sit on one of the bedrolls while she got a good look at his eyes. Jaskier distracted himself by leading Roach over to where the other horses were tethered, removing her saddle and bridle, whispering excessive amounts of praise while he gave her a rubdown.

His stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he had yet to eat, as well as the promise he’d made to the boy – Dara – to feed him. He shifted through the packs, removing the last of the bread, a wedge of cheese, and the ham left over from Ciri and Yennefer’s supper.

Ciri had Dara’s sleeve rolled up and was cleaning the cut with a damp cloth, a fresh bandage ready and balanced on her knee. “I’m sorry,” she was saying as Jaskier joined them. “You were right, Dara. I – I’m not safe to be around, I bring nothing but death everywhere I go –”

“Well, that’s a fat load of nonsense if I’ve ever heard it, cub, and I was at the Academy, so I’ve heard plenty of nonsense,” Jaskier said. “How long have we been traveling together now? And unless I’m mistaken, I’m still very much alive. And yes, look – so are Yen and Geralt.”

“I wanted to forget, Ciri,” Dara whispered, his breath hitching in his throat. “I wanted to forget all of it – my family. The war. You, what I said to you. Brokilon was my chance to do it, but… I’m _glad_ the Dryads didn’t let me back in.”

“It’s clear the alternative hasn’t been much kinder to you,” Ciri said, removing the blood-stained cloth and starting to wrap Dara’s arm with the bandage. 

“’S nothing new,” Dara muttered, accepting the slice of bread layered with ham and cheese that Jaskier handed to him. He ate ravenously, as though he hadn’t recently had the opportunity. 

“Easy now, it’s not going to run away from you,” Jaskier said softly, though he knew how it felt. He’d been that hungry himself more than once in his life. “You know each other, then.”

“Dara saved my life,” Ciri said. “Many times. I’d have been captured or killed long ago if it weren’t for him.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Dara,” Jaskier said, brushing his hand free of crumbs before holding it out.

Dara hesitated, then took it, giving it a tentative shake. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer called, and the bard jumped to his feet, hurrying over to the fire. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when Geralt looked up at him with sharp, golden eyes.

“You – you’re – can you see?”

“Yes, bard,” Geralt said, his mouth quirking up in a half-smile. 

“Witcher physiology,” Yennefer said. “I hardly did a thing, just caused the night vision potion to wear off more quickly. It was the temporary membrane that was damaged, not his actual eyes.”

“Membrane?” Jaskier repeated numbly.

“The black film over his eyes, which helps him see in the dark,” the sorceress explained. “It grows and stays when the potion is active in his system, and fades away when it isn’t.”

“Thank the gods.” Jaskier suddenly felt very tired, so he sank down next to Geralt on the bedroll.

“The gods had nothing to do with this,” Geralt grumbled, throwing an arm around him and pulling him close.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, leaning his head on the Witcher’s shoulder.

“What could you possibly be sorry for?” Geralt snorted, his arm tightening around Jaskier’s waist.

“The swordsman – Bonhart, Dara called him. He found you in Ard Carraigh, if we’d just ridden through like you wanted –”

“Then he would have found me on the road,” Geralt reasoned. “You heard himself say that he was heading to Kaer Morhen, same as us. I only wish I’d had the chance to stick a sword in him before he scarpered.”

“Maybe he’ll get wound rot, like you said,” Jaskier sighed. 

“Besides,” Geralt rumbled, turning his face to scent Jaskier’s hair. “Weren’t you the one who was saying that it was all right to indulge once in a while?”

“I may have said that, yes,” Jaskier admitted.

“So indulge me.” Geralt kissed him, long and soft and sweet, bringing his other hand up to cup Jaskier’s face.

“Anytime,” Jaskier laughed breathlessly.


	4. Chapter 4

“What is it?” Jaskier asked, his voice filled with awe.

Geralt had to hide the smile that threatened at the look on his bard’s face. Jaskier was staring in blue-eyed wonder up at the exposed cliff on the trail, and he wasn’t the only one.

“Is it a dragon?” Ciri asked, in a hushed tone. 

“Not a dragon,” Geralt explained. “Or at least, not a dragon as we know them, few though there are. Years and years ago, all the land we’ve traveled was underwater, part of a great ancient sea. This is one of the creatures which lived in it. Mark that limb there. See how it’s flattened? It’s for swimming, not for walking or flying.”

A huge, partial skeleton of a long-necked creature was just visible in the face of the rock, its petrified bones dark against the pale gray of the surrounding sediment. Geralt had passed by it many times before and had not even thought to point it out. Jaskier had noticed, though, and his startled exclamation had drawn everyone’s attention to it. 

“A sea?” Ciri’s eyes were wide. “Did you swim in it?”

“I am not _that_ old, cub,” Geralt growled. “When I say years and years ago, what I mean is millions of years.”

“Before even the Elves?” Dara gasped.

Geralt regarded the Elf boy sitting behind Ciri in the saddle, tall and gangly, all legs and elbows like a young colt. “Before even them. Before there were people, I think. Or what we would recognize as people.”

“Sounds peaceful,” Yennefer said quietly. “A world before people.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt’s tone was thoughtful. “Depends on how it died, I suppose.”

“Will we make it to the keep tomorrow?” Ciri asked, after Geralt clicked his tongue at Roach and got the party moving again. 

“We should, if the weather holds,” Geralt replied, casting his eyes to the north, where dark clouds hung threateningly over the mountains. They’d been lucky so far, with no serious storms blowing in on top of them since they’d ascended the foothills and now were truly in the mountains. “Jaskier, the trail grows narrow up ahead. Get up here.”

A flash of disappointment crossed the bard’s face – he couldn’t play his lute when he was riding behind Geralt, and he’d started humming a snatch of a new tune after seeing the skeleton of the ancient sea creature. But Jaskier swung his lute so that it hung across his back anyway, grabbing Geralt’s offered hand and pulling himself up.

Geralt hummed very quietly in contentment at the feeling of Jaskier, warm and solid behind him, his arms clasped loosely around his waist. He tried not to be greedy for it, though, mindful of the burden it put on Roach to carry two. He wasn’t lying – the trail did narrow further up. But it wasn’t as if Jaskier couldn’t have followed behind the horses.

He could hear him still humming, felt lute-calloused fingers absently plucking at his coat, and didn’t bother holding back his smile this time. No one could see, he was leading the party, after all. He wondered what it would be like to get a glimpse inside of a mind that saw the world through music. He supposed that he could always ask Jaskier to try to explain it, but he rather thought that would be like asking a fish to explain water. To Jaskier, music just _was._ It existed all around them, it just needed a little help to be heard.

The wind picked up a little as they came around a switchback in the trail, and suddenly Geralt was even more glad to have the bard riding with him, if only to shield him from the icy breeze as it tugged at their coats, stung their faces and wove through their hair. They’d been fortunate to come across a merchant returning from her busy season in the mountains who still had wares to sell, and were able to get Dara some warm clothing that wasn’t just whatever rags he’d been able to cobble together. A bedroll, too. 

Geralt didn’t resent the boy for needing to be rescued, and he didn’t care at all that he was an Elf – he’d been able to smell it, even though Dara had tried at first to keep his pointed ears hidden under his cap. Ciri had pulled him aside and told him he was being ridiculous, but the Witcher approved of taking sensible precautions. Dara had no way of knowing that Yennefer was quarter-Elf until she owned it to him, nor would he have known that Jaskier’s lute had been a gift from Filavandrel rather than plunder taken from Elves after a massacre. Jaskier’d had fun with that one, telling the story and trying to rhyme ‘lute’ with ‘loot’ and sending the pups into stitches of laughter.

No, if there was any resentment to be had, it was only in the way that Ciri’s attention was divided even further, now that their little pack had grown. He’d felt the distance between him and his Child Surprise grow a little since Dara had joined them, though he didn’t think it was intentional. He knew he deserved none of her regard, and gratefully accepted what Ciri was willing to give, seeing as he’d avoided even the very mention of her for most of her life. And that had led to disaster. 

Besides, he’d be able to spend more time with her at the keep, when she started her other training.

They stopped at the campsite that Geralt knew was the best place to rest before the final push, the trickiest part of the trail to the keep that the Witchers of the Wolf School called ‘The Killer.’ It was a nasty bit of business, all narrow switchbacks and loose rocks. The horses would barely be able to manage it, so the rest of them would be on foot, too.

Geralt lost himself in the familiar tasks involved with setting up camp, kicking away stray rocks from the area where they’d lay out the bedrolls, building up the circle of stones meant for the fire so that the wind wouldn’t put it out or scatter the coals, and gathering up what little dry tinder he could find and using Igni to dry out the stuff still covered in ice and snow.

The River Gwenllech roared not far away, carving a deep channel through the steep slopes of the mountain. It was the source of fresh water for Kaer Morhen, water and glacier melt flowing down to feed the valley, eventually meeting up with even mightier rivers to empty into the sea. The noise of it only made it a little difficult to hear what everyone was doing. Ciri and Yennefer were deep in their nightly lesson. Jaskier was teaching Dara how to groom the horses and dodge the gelding’s teeth. 

And there were little rustlings among the scant trees, where Geralt might find them some meat for the pot. They had rations enough, but Geralt didn’t want to rely on them if they didn’t have to. As long as they were outside the keep, they still risked being stranded.

Geralt pulled a few small throwing knives out of the wallet in his saddlebag, holding the bare blades loosely in his hand. He padded on silent feet into the trees to hunt.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Witchers were, by nature, light sleepers. They had to be, even if their mutations hadn’t heightened their senses to the point where every whisper of a breeze, every soft shifting of leaves, every noiseless footfall of the undead were enough to bring them into wakefulness.

So there was no sleep to be had right next to a wriggly, twitchy bard. Geralt endured Jaskier’s tossing and turning with what he believed was an extraordinary amount of patience before finally deciding to roll right on top of him. He smothered the bard’s indignant noise with a kiss. “Be still, Jask.”

“Great brute,” Jaskier grumbled. “You’re crushing me.”

“I’m not. I’m keeping you from preventing everyone from getting any sleep tonight.” Geralt nosed at Jaskier’s ear, nipping playfully at the lobe. “Something troubling you?”

Jaskier was quiet, which was entirely unlike him. Or mostly, at least. He’d changed between the dragon hunt and their reunion in Lyria. Geralt supposed they both had. But compared to the ever-chirping songbird he’d been before, this Jaskier held some things close. Geralt was still trying to get used to it.

“Tomorrow we’ll be in Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier said. “With – well. A bunch of Witchers. Yennefer. Ciri and Dara, a princess and an Elf. And…me. It may be a _little_ late to be asking this, but are humans even allowed in the keep?”

Geralt’s brow wrinkled. “Ciri’s human.”

“She’s much more than that, and you know it.”

“Hmm. True.”

“She and Dara are both determined to be just like you, you know. To train as Witchers. Slaying monsters. Helping people.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say. “I never wanted that.”

“Never wanted what? To teach someone else to be as good as you are?” Jaskier lifted his head and kissed him. “As brave as you are?” Another kiss. “As fair-minded as you are?” And another.

“You’re talking rubbish, bard.”

“I’m not,” Jaskier said, a faint smile appearing on his face.

Geralt chose to just let that lie. “Anyhow, you’ll be welcome. Vesemir will grumble, but his complaints are just for show. The old man doesn’t know how _not_ to complain. There’s nothing he’d like more than a noisy keep, after all these years. And as for you…” He kissed Jaskier’s forehead. “I look forward to watching you annoy the shit out of my brothers.”

Jaskier chuckled, then stopped suddenly, his expression turning speculative. 

“What?” Geralt asked.

“Just thinking about you meeting _my_ brother, and how you’d scare the ever loving shit out of him. Pleasant thought. It would require us to actually be in his presence, though, which is less pleasant.”

“If you both don’t _shut up_ and go the fuck to sleep, nothing will be pleasant for either of you ever again,” came Yennefer’s voice, low and deadly.

Geralt pushed down the urge to laugh, knowing that it would only irritate Yennefer further, and rolled to his side, pulling Jaskier against him. The bard snuggled close and eventually dropped off to sleep, but Geralt only dozed. He heard Ciri mumble and shift in her sleep, still plagued by bad dreams. Yennefer’s sharp, precise breaths – she was the same sleeping as she was waking. He heard Dara’s snores – gods, the boy was going to be a menace to all of his future bed mates if that stuck with him. Maybe he’d grow out of it.

The White Wolf lay in the cold dark, but listening to the sounds of his sleeping pack kept him warm.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The clouds that had yesterday threatened snow over a distant mountain range were now above them, blown in by a fiercely cold wind that kicked up just after dawn. Geralt got them all up and moving. He could smell a snowstorm on that wind, and he knew from experience that it was going to be bad. Even if the trail didn’t ice immediately, wet rocks were slippery rocks, and made the trail even more treacherous for the horses.

But if they made good time, reached the gate before the snow started to fall, it would be all right. Geralt wondered which of his brothers had decided to winter in the keep this year. For all that he’d tried to reassure Jaskier last night, the truth was that all Witchers were arseholes, without exception, and some were worse than that. Not that Vesemir would allow anyone to make any trouble. The old Wolf had plenty of teeth left, and the younger Witchers wouldn’t dare cross him.

Roach bumped him with her nose, urging him forward when his pace slowed. She knew the way almost as well as he did, and he could tell that she was tired of climbing these gods-damned mountains. Ciri and Dara were taking turns leading the brown mare, and the gelding was being led by Yennefer, the only one among them that he was too afraid to bite.

The trail curved to the right ahead of them, following the bend in the Gwenllech as it carved through solid rock, much as it had done for centuries. Longer, probably. The mist churned up by the water tumbling downhill made the air colder, and Geralt turned his head to check on Ciri. She’d taken to wearing her trousers instead of skirts, which was sensible of her in this weather. Faint movement further back on the trail caught his eye.

He’d seen that type of distortion in the air before, but not often. Something tightened in Geralt’s chest, and he stopped, dragging on Roach’s lead rope to bring her to a halt. “Yen!” he called, jerking his head.

Yennefer stopped, giving him a sharp look, then turned her gaze in the direction of his gesture. She froze when she saw the ripple, and thrust the gelding’s lead into Dara’s hands. “Portal!”

 _“Fuck,”_ Geralt swore. “Jaskier, take Roach –”

And the portal opened.

Men in shiny, beetle-black armor spilled out, followed by a dark, handsome man in fine clothes.

“Vilgefortz!” Yennefer spat the name like a curse. “You fucking traitor.”

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the man said, his white teeth flashing in a sardonic grin. “What a prize you have here.” His dark eyes flicked to Ciri, who was standing frozen, her eyes fixed on the Nilfgaardian soldiers on the trail.

Shit.

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s arm, getting the bard’s full attention. “Jask, take the pups. Don’t stop. Don’t turn back. You get Ciri to the keep no matter what.”

Jaskier’s blue eyes were wide. “Geralt –”

“Nilfgaard cannot know that Ciri’s here,” Geralt said urgently. “None of these soldiers makes it out alive, understand?”

The bard gulped and nodded, leading Roach off to the side of the trail and calling to Dara and Ciri. 

Geralt charged down the trail, drawing steel and coming to a stop beside Yennefer as she flung one of the Nilfgaardians off the edge of the trail into the water with nothing but a gesture.

“I see you’ve fully recovered,” Vilgefortz said, drawing his flame-bladed sword. The ripples marked it as Korvirian steel, extremely fine work. 

“It was nothing,” Yennefer said dismissively, holding her hands out, ready. “I could do it again right now.”

“I doubt that.” The other mage took a step forward, into a fighting stance. 

_“Do_ you. Your time with Fringilla must have made you forget what free mages are capable of.” Yennefer gestured, causing Vilgefortz’s sword to fly out of his hands and into the throat of one of the other soldiers. The man gurgled and fell, spitting blood.

“You mistake my intentions, Yennefer,” Vilgefortz said, placing his hand at his scabbard and drawing his blade again. 

Geralt blinked. That was a damn useful trick.

“I am no traitor,” the mage continued, taking another step forward. “Sodden was a bloodbath, you saw it. Countless lives lost, so many of our brothers and sisters. And to what end? Nilfgaard will take the north if they don’t get what they came for. They are only delayed. Not defeated. What’s one girl against millions of lives? I only seek to make peace. This is the only way.”

“You can take your peace and shove it right up your –” Yennefer snarled, but had to jump to the side to avoid a slash from a Nilfgaardian blade. She reached out and closed her fist, forcing the man’s own armor to crush him.

This was enough talk. Geralt set predatory amber eyes on the mage and stalked forward, brushing aside a soldier’s attack with a slight parry and thrusting his blade into zealot’s armpit, always a weak point in any kind of armor, especially the cheap, weak stuff that Nilfgaard strapped to its battle fodder. He jerked his blade free, and swung it at Vilgefortz.

The Korvirian was skilled, that much was clear, but he was also ostentatious. His magic gave him an advantage, but anyone who allowed himself to be so easily disarmed was careless by definition. Geralt slashed at him, testing him, twisting the flame blade out of Vilgefortz’s grip again and again, and landed a touch on the outer part of the mage’s thigh.

Vilgefortz cursed and retreated a few steps, his face no longer amused. “What’s your stake in this, mutant?” he taunted, trying to put Geralt off his stride. “Surely a Witcher can’t be too invested in the fate of one small girl. If you stand aside, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Your head would be enough,” Geralt grunted, parrying a strike and then throwing his weight against their locked blades, forcing Vilgefortz back even further. 

“And you think you have the power to take it?” Vilgefortz seemed genuinely curious, twirling his sword in his hand.

“No. But she does,” Geralt said, and brought his sword down, forcing the mage to block overhand, and then striking out with his foot. His kick knocked the mage back into the portal that Yennefer had opened behind him, and Geralt caught a whiff of salt water as Vilgefortz disappeared into the center of the swirling, rippling circle of air.

Yennefer was scowling, her hand pressed against a shallow gash on her upper arm. 

“Where did you send him?” Geralt asked, trying to regain his breath.

“The middle of the fucking ocean. But he’s a slippery one. He may well get out of –”

An unearthly scream suddenly filled the air, thrumming through the stone of the mountain and causing small rocks to bounce and tumble down the trail. Geralt and Yennefer looked at each other in alarm. _Ciri._

Higher up on the path, Geralt saw one Nilfgaardian soldier down, the hilt of Jaskier’s small dagger just visible above his breastplate. A second soldier was struggling with Jaskier, his sword raised high while the bard gripped his wrist tightly with both hands, trying to force it away.

Ciri was watching them in horror, her mouth open to scream again –

“Ciri, don’t!” Yennefer shouted, pelting up the trail.

The Nilfgaardian used his free hand to deliver a blow to Jaskier’s side, and Jaskier flinched away, his grip weakening –

Ciri screamed.

The horses, bunched up on the trail, bolted uphill as fast as they could go. Dara was nearly dragged along before he hastily let go, landing hard on his hands and knees. The ground shuddered again, the rocks vibrating and rattling in place.

The black-armored soldier lost his balance, his foot slipping off the trail. He fell into the white waters of the Gwenllech.

And he pulled Jaskier in with him.

“No!” Geralt roared. He dropped his steel sword on the ground and threw himself into the river without hesitation.

Even as a Witcher, the sudden shock of the cold water drove the air from his lungs, and the swift current turned him over, filled his clothing and his boots, the weight of it dragging him down. But he’d gone in just the Nilfgaardian and Jaskier were swept past, and he used the current to his advantage as he struggled after them. 

The Nilfgaardian was tugged away by the water, spinning slightly in place before being forced under in the eddy below a large boulder.

He did not surface again. 

Geralt managed to grab a handful of Jaskier’s coat sleeve, willing the material to hold as the sudden drag caused them both to go under. The Witcher felt his legs come into contact with something hard and he scrabbled to push off from it, bringing the two of them up to the surface again. He pulled Jaskier close and struck out with one arm, angling their way to the trail side of the river as they continued to bob with the current. 

Solid ground.

Geralt heaved himself onto the steep river bank, hauling Jaskier’s limp body with him. He’d never seen the bard so pale, his skin was as white as if something had bled him. 

“Jask?” He choked out, coughing up some water. “Jaskier?” 

There was no response. Geralt leaned down, putting his ear above Jaskier’s nose and mouth. He heard it, very faint, a slight whistle as Jaskier’s body tried to breathe in some air. He swiftly turned the bard onto his side, giving him a few thumps in the middle of his back. 

Jaskier shuddered and coughed, vomiting out a bellyful of river water and then taking in deep gulps of air. He didn’t open his eyes, though, and he started to shake, his entire body trembling with the cold.

“Fuck,” Geralt spat, feeling chilled himself now that they were out of the water and exposed to the wind. “Yen!”

“Geralt!” Yennefer’s voice was full of undisguised relief. The Witcher looked up to see Yennefer leaning over the edge of the trail, one arm spread to keep Ciri and Dara from getting too close. Ciri was silently weeping, tears pouring down her face and clutching Dara’s hand.

“Get the blankets out, get him some spare clothes,” Geralt ordered, staggering to his feet and trying to keep his balance on the sharply-sloped bank. “We’ve got to get him dry before we can move on.”

Jaskier was starting to stir a little as Geralt hooked his hands under his shoulders and started to drag him up to the trail. Yennefer had one of the blankets laid out, and Dara was running back from grabbing Jaskier’s pack, which he’d dumped on the trail when the Nilfgaardian soldiers had caught up with them. 

“This is all we’ve got,” the boy panted, dropping to his knees next to the blanket. “The horses bolted with the rest.”

“Roach will lead them to the keep,” Geralt grunted. “It’s not far now.”

A single, fat snowflake caught his eye as it drifted down and touched on the ground. Then another. And another.

“Fucking perfect.” Of course it would choose _now_ to start snowing. They didn’t have time for this.

Geralt fumbled with Jaskier’s clothes, opening his coat and lifting him up so that he could peel the soaked garment from his arms.

“Tryin’ to get into my pants, Witcher?” The bard mumbled, flinching when another gust of icy wind hit them.

“Trying to keep them from freezing to your arse,” Geralt said, pulling the offending item off of Jaskier’s long legs. He moved on to Jaskier’s shirt, pulling the hem up, and stilled. “Yen.”

Yennefer heard his tone and came to peer over his shoulder, sucking in a breath at the sight of wine-dark stain beneath the surface of Jaskier’s skin, coloring his abdomen. Geralt touched the area gingerly, and found it to be hard and unyielding.

“He’s bleeding inside,” Yennefer said, though Geralt already knew, his stomach clenching with dread.

“Fix him. Heal him.”

“Geralt…”

“Do it!” he snapped.

“If I put him into a healing sleep now, he’d have to stay asleep for at least a night,” Yennefer said. “We wouldn’t be able to move him, we’d have to stay here.”

Geralt’s shoulders sagged. “We can’t stay here.” The snow was falling heavier now, with patches of it beginning to stick to the trail.

“I could…” Yennefer bit her lip, thinking hard. “I could try to portal to Triss, bring her back here. It would be risky to try to move him through a portal, it can be hard on the system. But there have been two portals in this area in the last hour, and Ban Ard isn’t far away. Drawing the attention of the Brotherhood is the next-worst thing to drawing the attention of Nilfgaard.”

“Don’t,” whispered Jaskier. “Don’t put Ciri in danger.” He groped for Geralt’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Then we try for the keep,” Geralt said heavily. “And you start the healing as soon as we get there.”

Yennefer patted his shoulder, both in silent acknowledgement of the plan and in an attempt to comfort. She leaned down to speak softly into his ear. “Keep him awake. Don’t let him fall asleep.”

Geralt nodded, focusing on using the blanket to gently pat Jaskier’s skin dry before dressing him in his spare clothes. He wrapped the blanket around the bard tightly, even though it was damp. But Jaskier’s coat was still wet, and they had nothing else to use.

“I’m s-sorry,” Ciri said, her voice wobbly. “I didn’t mean –”

“It’s not your fault, cub,” Geralt said gently, looking up at her. “We’ll get through this, all right?”

She looked at him disbelievingly, her eyes still wet with tears. Geralt pulled her into a hug, trying to soothe her by rubbing her back. “Just a little further, Ciri. It will be all right.”

Though Jaskier wasn’t quite as big as Geralt, he was by no means a slight man, and Geralt grunted slightly as he picked him up, holding him tightly against his body. Jaskier’s head rested against Geralt’s shoulder, eyes closed, and Geralt gave him a little shake. “Wake up, bard. It’s not fair to the rest of us if you get to nap while we’re doing all the hard work.”

Jaskier blinked open blue eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting a little. “Better than hiking around soaking wet.” He patted Geralt’s coat weakly.

“I can handle it. Witchers don’t really feel the cold,” Geralt lied.

He wished it were true as they started moving again, and he started to lose feeling in his skin as the wind blew and the snow continued to fall. Geralt was fairly certain that his hair had frozen into clumps, feeling it move sluggishly as the wind tugged at it. The pups were quiet, even though Yennefer tried to get them talking as a distraction. But it had always been Jaskier who’d had the real talent for that, and the atmosphere was tense with distress.

It didn’t help that Jaskier’s head lolled periodically, and that he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried not to squirm when his body tensed with pain, now starting to feel more of whatever had been injured internally. Unable to quite see where he was putting his feet, Geralt stumbled occasionally, his arms tightening instinctively around Jaskier, and he cursed himself when it resulted in a wince or a whimper.

Geralt found himself talking, telling Jaskier about the keep and winters past, about the time when winter had set in so thoroughly and the wind had blown so fiercely that there were great drifts of snow that had nearly reached the top of the outer wall, and that he and his brothers had taken turns dropping themselves into the snow, sinking deep and practically having to swim their way out.

But Jaskier’s head was drooping, and it was clear that he was struggling to keep his eyes open, no matter how many times Geralt shook him or stumbled. 

_He can’t fall asleep,_ Geralt thought desperately. 

So he did the only thing he could think of, and started to sing.

It was nothing compared to what Jaskier could do. Geralt didn’t have much of a knack for remembering the words to songs, though he’d come to know Jaskier’s ballads pretty well. It was rough and disjointed and he struggled for breath, his legs and arms screaming with the effort of climbing the steep switchbacks while carrying a grown man. But Jaskier’s eyes opened, fixed on Geralt’s face. His hand tightened on a handful of Geralt’s coat, and didn’t let go.

Geralt sang until he saw the light of a torch up ahead, a welcome beacon in the gloom of the falling snow.

Vesemir was standing at the gate of the keep, his scarred face grave and set in a disapproving scowl, and Geralt couldn’t have been more pleased to see him.

“Cutting it awfully close, aren’t you, boy?” Vesemir growled, his eyes widening as he saw the rest of the party trailing behind Geralt. “What, did you bring an entire fucking village with you?”

“Did the horses make it?” Geralt grunted, feeling his arms start to tremble a bit under the strain of Jaskier’s weight.

“We found three of them waiting outside the gate. I see more than three people here.”

“Good to see that you haven’t forgotten how to count in your old age.”

“Fuck off, pup. You keep that up and I’ll show you what I haven’t forgotten,” Vesemir scowled. “Come on then.”

The old Witcher led them through the gate, pushing the heavy wooden door shut and barring it before taking them into the main hall, where a large fire burned brightly in the massive fireplace. There were three other Witchers sitting at the long table, holding mugs of something smelling strongly of alcohol.

“Geralt!” A dark-haired Witcher raised his mug in greeting.

“Eskel. Lambert.” Geralt grunted, and paused before greeting the last man. “What the fuck is a Griffin doing here?”

“Don’t be like that, Geralt.” Coën said with a grin. “I found myself in the mountains this winter and decided to take advantage of the hospitality of the Wolf School.”

“What have we got here?” Lambert, a bulky man with wild auburn hair, stood and swept his gold-brown eyes over Geralt’s party. “Fresh meat?”

Dara and Ciri eyed the big Witcher uneasily. He certainly didn’t _look_ like he was joking, and Geralt held his tongue against issuing a blistering response. They didn’t have time for lengthy introductions.

“Yennefer, with me. Ciri, Dara, stay here. Lambert, don’t eat them.”

Geralt looked down at Jaskier, whose hand had gone limp, his eyes fallen shut. _Fuck._

The sorceress followed them to the room that Geralt always slept in while he was here, though there was nothing really to mark it as his. He left no possessions here, the stone walls held no decoration. There wasn’t any point, really. Ever since he’d started on the Path, he’d never stayed for more than a few months at a time. Geralt gently laid Jaskier on the bed, smoothing back a lock of hair that had fallen over his eyes.

Yennefer unceremoniously shoved Geralt out of the way and held a hand over Jaskier’s prone form, whispering in Elder. 

Geralt didn’t see anything happen, but as long as Jaskier’s chest continued to rise and fall…

“Come on,” Yennefer said, sounding tired. “You’re still in these wet clothes, we should get you close to the fire.”

“Jaskier –”

“He’ll heal. More quickly, if he’s not disturbed. And he won’t wake until morning.”

Geralt reluctantly allowed Yennefer to tow him back to the hall after pulling the blankets up to Jaskier’s chin. Ciri and Dara were still standing very close together, holding tight to each other’s hands and watching with wide eyes as Eskel and Lambert shouted at each other.

“No one needs _your_ permission to bring anyone with them, you great lummox!” Eskel was saying.

“I didn’t expect to be part of any fucking nursery,” Lambert snapped. “We haven’t had pups here in –”

“Too long,” Vesemir interrupted, looking at Ciri appraisingly.

“And one of them’s a fucking girl, the other an Elf! What are we meant to do with that?”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Geralt growled. “You can stay shut in your gods-damned room all winter for all I care.”

“You’re one to talk,” Lambert scoffed. “Looks like you’ve brought a bed-warmer with you to get you through cold nights, though he looked near death to me. Is that why you brought a spare?” He eyed Yennefer, who stared back at him with cold violet eyes.

Before Geralt could reply, Ciri marched right up to Lambert, her face full of fury, and kicked the man hard on the shin. 

The big Witcher howled, jerking his leg out of the way and hopping on one foot while Eskel and Coën roared with laughter. 

Ciri stood her ground in front of him, glaring at him with her pale blue-green eyes. “His name is Jaskier, and he’s _not_ dying.” She turned uncertainly to Geralt and Yennefer. “Is he?”

“No, cub,” Geralt said, not bothering to hide the pride that he felt at seeing the ferocity the Lion Cub of Cintra had within her. “He’ll be all right after a night’s sleep.”

Lambert glowered at the small girl for a moment, rubbing his shin, but then his face broke into a wide grin. “I like her.”

0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Geralt woke when he felt a slight tug at his hair, and he opened his eyes to see Jaskier looking back at him, just pulling his hand back from running his fingers through snow-white hair. 

Relief flooded him, though he immediately pulled at the hem of Jaskier’s shirt. He saw nothing but normal, pale skin, unblemished except for the old red scar that ran along his side. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier protested, tugging his shirt out of the Witcher’s grip. 

“You’re feeling all right?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Jaskier said, shifting closer to Geralt in the bed. He brought their lips together in a soft kiss, one of his hands sneaking around to cup the back of Geralt’s head and tangle his fingers in his hair once more. “Thank you.”

“For what? For dragging you across the continent and nearly getting you killed?” Geralt asked bitterly.

“For singing to me.” Jaskier’s voice was soft. “You have a lovely voice.”

Geralt snorted in disbelief. Of course Jaskier would be more focused on song than on the fact that he’d almost died.

“Excuse me, who’s the master of music here, me or you?”

“Well, I hope we’ll find that it was worth it,” Geralt said, trying to change the subject away from his singing.

“Why wouldn’t it be worth it? I find myself a wealthy man,” Jaskier said, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Did you come across a sack of coin I didn’t know about?” Geralt was confused.

“I’d say,” Jaskier kissed him again. “That a man who can look upon gold whenever he wants, that man is a wealthy man.”

Geralt was speechless for a moment. “Fucking romantic.”

“Oh, yes, I like that idea,” Jaskier said, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

A low chuckle bubbled up from Geralt’s chest as he pulled Jaskier to him.


End file.
